Beer, Balls, and the Blue Bucket
by amourette
Summary: House is an ass. Lucas is sick. Kutner makes a friend. Rated T for drugs, alcohol, self abuse and eating disorders. All spoilers REMOVED. HUDDYISH.
1. Reasons to Beg

1.

"He's barely eaten in weeks," Cuddy said into the circular holes of the phone's receiver. She sat at her desk, her eyes idly shifting every few moments as the afternoon's shadows played against the walls. Done up in a pressed mauve suit, she slowly licked her lips and brushed her fingertips through her dark, short waves.

"I'm not talking about this," said the voice from the other side of the phone in a curt tone.

Cuddy sighed aloud, her nails drumming absently against the surface of her desk. "James, please." There was a persistence that resonated from those simple two words. "I don't want to beg."

"I'm not asking you to beg," Wilson argued with a soft mutter. "I simply asked you not to talk about it."

"House is not an _it_, James. House is a person – and _was_ your best friend." A hint of a snort emitted from the small receiver and Cuddy's eyes gave into a slight roll. "All right, I'm not saying he was the most positive influence in your life but you stuck around for as long as you did for a reason."

"Because I had the key to his training wheels and you needed me there or else the whole hospital – your hospital, would fall to pieces." Cuddy's brow stiffened and she pursed her mouth tensely.

"That's hardly fair."

" – and yet completely true," Wilson interrupted. "House is an addict, whether it be for pain medication, knowledge, or answers. Nothing ever satisfies him but he'll never realize that. Instead he'll go above and beyond to satiate his current need for a fix, not caring if he happens to destroy everything in his path both bad and good. I won't deny that House has done a lot of good for a lot of people in this life – but for me," he trailed off with a disheartened sigh. "I just can't."

"Can't come back or can't talk to him?" There was no answer, only static silence.

"You don't understand," Wilson replied softly after a moment's hesitation. "You just don't."

"Well here's what I _do_ understand," Cuddy explained, her eyes narrowing into two impossible slits as she shifted against the seat of her chair. "I understand that you feel as though I, in the past, put you in a bind regarding House and his behavior – which I will admit that I did. I should've spent more time finding ways to reel him in rather than just expect you do clean up his mess for him or for me. However," she continued. "However, what I don't understand is how you can just pull yourself out of his world so quickly without seeming to care about the damage that's being done."

"How is this any different from normal?" Wilson's voice was beginning to stammer, though whether from anger or nervousness, Cuddy couldn't tell. "House loves being miserable. Whether I'm in his life or not he'll find a way to self destruct and pile the guilt on somebody else. By eliminating myself from that situation, I've eliminated myself from his mind games."

"So now he can just thrust all his guilt onto me, is what you're saying?"

"Look, there's no perfect way to resolve this. Let's just face the facts and the facts are that House will never be happy. He abused whatever was left of our friendship to the point where all I was, was a second body and brain for him to use. Any pain he was feeling? Why, take it out on Wilson. That's what friendship is, right?"

"No," Cuddy let out a great sigh, cradling her head in her hands as she shook her head. "No, you're right. That's not friendship and House is definitely a jackass."

"Brilliant," Wilson interjected. "But still a jackass." There was a pause from his end of the phone. He cleared his throat. "Is he really not eating?"

"I don't know," Cuddy admitted with a groan. "To be honest, everything I've been getting is from his team. Kutner's come in at least twice just this week with concerns. At first I figured it was just another ploy for attention."

" – he knew you'd call me," Wilson said quietly.

"Exactly," she affirmed. "But, I realized that was probably the game plan from the start which is why I didn't."

"_Until now_."

"Until now. I just don't know what to do with him. He's been messing up on cases. He looks awful," she listed, ticking each item off on her slender fingertips. "House has been at the bottom of almost every barrel you could find on the planet but this – I don't know, this is the first time I've really seen him, well _lost_."

"Have you tried talking to him?" Cuddy laughed, lips parting into a small smile.

"Like that would do any good? House barely listens to me as it is. I really don't think sitting him down and having a heart to heart is any sort of future reality. You know how he is."

"I do," Wilson replied. "Well, what about your boyfriend? I thought he and House were close. Have him talk to House." Cuddy blushed furiously, her cheeks automatically shifting into a brilliant pink.

"Lucas is _not_ my boyfriend," she clarified with force. "He is an employee of this hospital and nothing more."

"Since when does a hospital need a private investigator employed?" Wilson countered with an almost humorous cadence.

"Since I said so," Cuddy argued pathetically. "He's _not_ my boyfriend." Wilson chuckled.

"All right, all right. I'm getting the picture. It's probably better that way anyway. Nothing says committed relationship like signing your loved one's check every month."

"He helps with House."

"Good."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Of course I do. Why would you even ask that?" Wilson defended. Cuddy shrugged, though fully aware he could not see her do so.

"I thought the whole point of you removing yourself from House's life was so that he'd stop using others."

"No – it was so he'd stop using me. I was nothing but an enabler for his every whim. I'm sorry that he's still himself, but I can't change him. I could only change where I was in regards to him. Do you see what I'm saying?" he questioned carefully.

"I do," Cuddy nodded. "Honestly, I do and some days I really wish I could do the same." A vibration erupted across her desk as her cell phone began to bounce and swivel along the surface, a red light blinking as the screen read a familiar name. "James, I've got to go I've got another call."

"Is it your boyfriend?" Wilson teased sweetly. Again, Cuddy's face alit with a fiery shade.

"He's is not my boyfriend," she repeated for what felt like the thousandth time. "I find both him and his profession just a little too creepy. In fact, I'd date House before I dated Lucas." Wilson's laughter rang out from the phone's speaker and Cuddy grinned. "It's good to hear you happy, James."

"It's good to _be_ happy."

"I've really got to get this call. Promise me you'll at least think about what I said?"

"Fine. Tell the boyfriend I say hello." Cuddy smirked.

"He's _not_ my boyfriend."


	2. Alien Impregnation

2.

House ignored the first few clangs against his office door. Gaze set upon the game module clutched in his curled hands, he continued clicking away in spaced silence.

"I can see you're in there you know," Lucas shouted from the other side of the glass sheets that stood from ceiling to floor.

"Saving the universe," House replied, the tip of his tongue poking out from the corners of his mouth. "Come back later." He unfurled a fingertip, pointing at a plain sheet of paper taped lopsidedly against his door that read in scrawled chicken-scratch: "_Aliens attacking. All interruptions will result in unwanted probing and possible impregnation_."

"Yeah well I'm coming in," the scruffy private investigator said as he pushed forth the heavy door with a bit of a moan. House sighed significantly, tossing the small beeping piece of electronic machinery against the fabric of his backpack that was placed upon the floor just below. The machine's screen faded to dark and the soft whirring of data and visual stimulation ceased at once.

"You clearly didn't read the sign," House muttered gruffly as his pale blue eyes scanned his intruder. He lifted his chin in a brusque nod. "Who's that?" he questioned, referring to the smaller figure behind his familiar guest.

"Alien impregnation isn't really a big concern of mine," Lucas said with a faintly amused grin. "Besides, say it happens – who doesn't want little green kids? It's like having your own leprechaun farm."

"Yes, well it's the probing that _really_ gets you." House snapped sarcastically as he craned his neck in an attempt to peer around the sedentary man. "Either you've grown another set of legs or you're simply ignoring the fact that I asked who was behind you. And since I don't see any other signs of genetic mutation, I'd love to know why you doomed the galaxy to an untimely fate just to _not_ introduce me to whomever it is you're hiding back there."

"Rigby, come here." Lucas tugged at the thin fingertips grasped within his hands, pulling the unknown figure closer.

"You weren't kidding," pealed a girlish female voice. "He _is_ an ass." A small head of dyed strands of dark hair popped out from behind the detective. Her nose shriveled at the sight of House's withering glare. "And scary too."

"What is this? Take your daughter to work day?" House sneered, though vaguely intrigued as he watched the young woman return his doubtful yet defiant stare. Lucas broke into harrowed bursts of awkward laughter, his cheeks flushing three shades darker as he shook his head fervently.

"Daughter?" He continued to laugh, though in such a way that made House cringe. "That's funny, really." Lucas bit his lip, nervously shredding the soft pink muscle and tender skin as he did so.

"I gathered that from your ever so pleasant reaction," House muttered sardonically, his mouth tightening as his eyes delved into two small slits.

"I'm a friend," Rigby interrupted as she suddenly leapt out from behind the investigator. With a steady stride she stopped before the small wooden desk, extending her hand toward House's. "You won't shake it, I know. But I'm doing this just to be polite." Immediately she retracted her hand, crossing her arms against her chest lightly as she eyed the sour faced man.

"And you're here because?"

"We had lunch with Lisa today. He wanted me to meet her." Rigby's eyes were a sullen grey shade, yet they felt as though daggers piercing House's skin as she studied him.

"I meant my office. Why are you here in my office?" House snarled miserably. Rigby shrugged, her petite shoulders rising and falling fast.

"Beats me. It was Lucas' idea. Ask him."

"Fine," House barked in reply, his face lifting swiftly to face the room's third occupant. "What on earth would possess you to think I could care less about meeting your other half of slumber-party Tuesday's?" Lucas' face was blank and unresponsive. Rigby however, snorted beneath her breath.

"_Idiot_. Everyone knows Friday night is slumber party primetime. That way your nail polish isn't chipped when you hit the clubs looking for a man to sex you up. Right, Lucas?"

"Right," Lucas mumbled dazedly, his eyes unfocused and darting back and forth. Sweat was beginning to trickle along his brow and his fingertips twitched uncomfortably. He blinked furiously, licking his lips. Rigby's arms dropped to her side as she tilted her head towards the right.

"Lucas?" House inquired.

"Lucas? Are you okay?" Rigby added with the greatest concern, her voice sweet. She reached for his arm, holding onto his wrist as she gave it a nervous squeeze. House rose slowly from his seat, the palms of his hands flat against his desk as he held himself steady. Lucas' lashes continued to flutter heavily as perspiration began to pool around his features and skin. In a matter of minutes he was nearly soaked, still standing with the same stunned and glassy stare.

"Yeah – I mean no, actually, _no_," he corrected as he shook his head wildly about, his free hand scratching at the top of his scalp as he dabbed at the flowing beads of sweat. He swallowed loudly, his throat tightening as he did so and his eyes snapped shut momentarily. House watched on curiously. Lucas turned face Rigby, eyes still closed as his facial features formed an expression of visible guilt and apologies. "I think I might need to be sick in a second or something," he murmured thickly. "I'm gonna' sit down."

"I told you there would be consequences for disrupting the universe's one chance at survival. Now look how it's repaying you. Get him the trash can," House directed as he swept his good leg across the carpet and against the metal container, pushing it towards Rigby who was in the process of easing the private investigator towards a more comfortable position on the floor. Rigby quickly snatched the can, dragging it closer. Promptly she situated it between Lucas' crossed legs, aiding his hands towards the rim as though leading the blind. Lucas gagged over the round opening.

Rigby shot House a worried glance. "Do you think it's just something he ate at lunch?" House watched on in quiet fascination as Lucas' fingertips continued to twitch in a peculiar fashion. Head cocked to the side, he frowned. Leaning upon his cane, he lifted his chin once more in accordance with the fretting girl.

"You have somewhere to sleep tonight?" Rigby's brow narrowed. Perplexed, her mouth hung open wide.

"No. I mean, I figured I'd just get a hotel or something." House shook his head, walking towards his office door. Lucas continued to perspire while holding onto the trash can with such great force that his knuckles had become whiter than snow. "Why?"

House pushed open the door, limping through it as he glanced over his shoulder and looked her directly in the eyes before disappearing down the hall. "Because you're staying at my place. Oh and bring the sick one," he shouted. "This ought to be interesting."


	3. Midnight Nachos

3.

"This has to be one of the most disgusting moments of my life," Lucas grumbled from his position crooked over a wan blue receptacle. "Not to mention a little bit disturbing." Through the furrowing of his brow, he rapped his knuckles lightly along the plastic coating of the tiny bucket he had clutched within his grasps. "I'm pretty sure this is meant for kids."

"Its fine," House argued with contempt as he sat behind the piano, plunking out the softest of symphonies as his sturdier foot worked the pedals below. Lucas' nose turned upwards as he shook his head multiple times. Extending a quivering fingertip he pointed towards the bucket's bottom.

"No, see – do you see this uneven part here?" his finger swirled around, bringing attention to a faint set of humps decorating the edge. "I think this is meant for sandcastles. Why would you even have this?" In his usual high pitched snicker, he brushed his sleeve against the corners of his mouth.

"Just be quiet and let me know when you're finished vomiting so we can get back to what I'm paying you to do." Lucas's eyes rolled but House was far too busy, wrapped in his own musical world at the moment to see.

"I wouldn't bring up money if I were you considering I've yet to see any cash." House's fingers paused upon the keys, the harmonies ceasing with a short yet haunting echo.

"I _told_ you," he said evasively as glanced down the hall, a small crash emitting from the confines of the kitchen. "I'll write you a check." Lucas's ashen lips spread into a rather exhausted grin. All color had drained from his face with the exception of a faint tint of green that lingered along the lids of his eyes. House's chin tilted as he shouted over the sudden clanging of pots and dinnerware. "How're those nachos coming?"

Rigby ducked out from behind the wall. Her hands were covered in paisley oven mitts that were two sizes too large for someone of her proportions. Bits of flour and grated cheese clung to the dark strands of her hair that had been swept up in a messy pile atop her head. Held between the mitts was a large, time-abused pan. A smattering of toasted chips with meat and cheese lay scattered across its surface, the heat practically rising in a puff of steam. "Are you sure this'll help him feel better?" she inquired with feeble hesitation. Her gaze shifted towards Lucas who was currently in the process of emptying what little his stomach had left to offer into the miniature beach pail.

House rose from the piano's bench, leaning on his cane for support as he lolled his way over towards the fresh pan of food. "No," he corrected briskly as he grabbed a fistful of the gooey chips and crammed them into his mouth. "However," he continued through the crunching, "I was hungry and there's no way I could've convinced your puking pal to stay in the kitchen for more than twenty minutes before he'd be running right back to where he is now." Rigby's brow narrowed and her ears burned a bright red. Dropping the pan upon the floor with a loud clang, she ripped the oven mitts off with great force and threw them at the chewing doctor.

"You are _such_ an ass," she hissed before turning on her heels and plopping herself down upon the couch with a brooding stare and arms crossed tightly against her chest.

"And your nachos are a little dull," House remarked blandly. Tilting his chin towards the private investigator he nudged the pan of food in his direction. "_Nachos_?"

The smell hit Lucas' stomach like an imploding bomb and he immediately dove back into the depths of the sky colored bucket with an uncomfortable belch. Rigby sat up with a flounce.

"_Why_ on earth would you torment him like that?"

"You've just met me," House said plainly as he swiped another handful of the cheesy treat. "But in time you'll find that it's just something I enjoy doing. Plus, I'm good at it so it tends to get done a lot."

"But he's sick," Rigby quarreled as her lower lip pouted, rubbing out flecks of cooked batter from her pale skins.

"Relax. He's fine. You were right earlier. It was probably just something he ate. At the rate he's going it'll be out of his system in no time and he'll be up and around to spy on the world's unsuspecting population."

Rigby laughed, though admittedly with a fair amount of bewilderment. "What're you talking about?" She slid from the couch to the floor, resting on her knees as she stared at House suspiciously. "_Spy_? Lucas is a construction worker you idiot. That's why you hired him to do the expansion on your office – and how he met _Lisa_." She said it as if though trying to remind him, her hands waving with each word.

Taken aback, House paused. Amidst his brutal heaves, Lucas's limpid hues lifted to meet the doctor's and he shot him an imploring look with a slight shake of his head. House nodded - his thin lips pursing as he grappled with his cane, intently watching the floor completely transfixed in thought.

"Rigby it's late," Lucas muttered between heavy pants for air. "House said you can have his bed, okay? Why don't you go get some sleep?" Childlike and wide eyed, Rigby nodded slowly.

"But what about you?" Lucas shot her a comforting smile, once again wiping the reminders of his stomach's rebellion away from the corners of his lips.

" and I will just sleep out here. It's okay. _Really_," he assured her. Biting her lip, Rigby nodded once more. She retreated to the bedroom but not before placing a tender kiss against the private investigator's cheek and raising her middle finger triumphantly in front of the doctor's face.

"Night Lucas. Eat shit, House." House held up a handful of the nachos, waggling them about as she disappeared down the hall.

"I already am," he complained grumpily. "Taking a cooking class or two wouldn't kill you," he called out. He turned towards Lucas. "She's pleasant," he noted dryly. Lucas shrugged with a half smile.

"She's my best friend." House felt a sudden pang of longing for his own best friend. Any other night he would've dialed Wilson's number, harassing him for any number of reasons just because he could. But it wasn't like that anymore. No matter how hard he had tried to fix the situation, things had changed. His eyes darkened and his jaw clenched as he heaved a soft sigh. "You're thinking about Wilson," Lucas said. "I'm sorry, man. I shouldn't be rubbing this in your face," he apologized hastily. House cut him off.

"You're not. Don't worry about it. Just go rinse that thing out," he said as he pointed his cane at the bucket. "And get some sleep why don't you." He massaged his temple with a distracted scowl. "You'll be fine in the morning."


	4. Wrists

4.

House twirled his cane between each knobbed finger in a rhythmic motion. "So," he said as he eyed the table of doctors. "What can you tell me about the patient that I don't already know from that chart there?"

Thirteen's brow furrowed as she tugged at the hem of her long white coat, ripping a loose thread from the fabric. "I thought that was Lucas' job now." House's faint blue hues rolled in their sockets as he gave a loud _tut_ beneath his breath.

"Our on call private investigator is currently indisposed. That would be where you all come in," he said as he cleared his throat icily. His cane thumped back down against the carpet as he rested the weight of his body upon its small wooden frame.

Taub made notice of House's garishly banded wrists, both wrapped loosely with ill fitting gauze and what appeared to be duct tape. "What happened to you?" he inquired nosily, his thick eyebrows arching in an almost comical way. House scowled sulkily. He rolled his shoulders, allowing his sports coat to settle against the curves of his bones and the bandages quickly disappeared beneath the cotton of his sleeves.

"Did you cut yourself?" Thirteen's voice resonated with utmost concern.

"Patient potentially _dying_ here," he reminded them with widened eyes. Lifting his cane he slammed it against the manila folder that was opened in a disarray of documents upon the table. "What do we know?"

"Nothing," Kutner revealed miserably, his cheek resting in the palm of his hands. A large Styrofoam cup of much needed caffeine was at his left and he grabbed it, gulping down the steaming contents at once.

"Can't you just call Lucas? I'm sure he'll reschedule for you." Taub bargained, crossing one of his legs atop the other as he stretched backwards with a silent yawn. House pressed his lips against one another tightly, pursing them as he glanced through the glass walls to the bustling chaos of the hallway outside.

"Can't," he said simply with a forced and rather aloof grimace. "He's - _busy_."

Kutner grinned, the tip of his tongue peeking through the parting of his lips as he snickered to himself. "Another _lunch date_ with Cuddy? Quickie in the supply closet perhaps?"

House glared crossly but shook his head nevertheless and he replied with frightening composure - "_tummy-ache_," he said as though it explained it all. A hint of gauze burst into view as he lifted his arm to glance at his watch. Patches of burgundy moisture were beginning to seep through the protective layers. "And since he's unable to help us I say that if we don't start to figure out something our patient has only got about another fourteen or so hours before Kutner's making a fool of himself as he tries to explain to the patient's family why we weren't able to save their loved one due to sheer idiocy on your behalves."

"House, you're bleeding." House's eyes followed Thirteen's finger, scrutinizing the miniature pool of red that had begun to form along his bandages.

"I'm fine," he warned brusquely. In an instant the distinct echo of four separate beepers erupted into pandemonium. The three doctors scurried from behind the table, rushing to the door. House remained still. A light headed sensation had started to rise from the neck above as he wavered ever so slightly. Reaching into the depths of his pockets, he yanked his cell phone from the jumbled mess and clumsily punched in the only set of numbers he knew by heart.

"Hello?" Wilson's voice reverberated from the speaker. It had been so long since he'd heard his old friend's voice - it almost stunned House to hear it once more.

"I need your help," House muttered as his eyes lifted towards the ceiling. His throat was gravelly and low. He could hear Wilson's breathing becoming agitated as it clearly hit him who was on the other line.

"House? Is that you?"

"No it's Cuddy," House drawled sarcastically. "I finally went through with the sex change."

"Damnit House, I blocked your number." Wilson seemed far more confused than angry.

"I got a new phone," House said plainly as though the fact would be more obvious.

"Goodbye, House."

"_Wait_," House started weakly but it was too late. There was a dim click and Wilson was gone. Bleakly, House stared at his swaddled wrists. The bleeding was beginning to wear off but his head still felt faint and dazed. His phone began to buzz and with a swelling sensation of hopefulness, House thrust it against his ear. "Hello?" he quipped in an oddly bright tone. "Hello?" His face fell at once. The voice on the other side was that of someone else. "Yeah? No, sorry. I thought you were someone else," he droned dully, his heart feeling as though it were plummeting from his chest to his toes. "All right. Uh huh. All right Rigby, fine. Just stay there." Picking at the gauze's fraying edges House sighed as his shoulders sagged with radical melancholy. "_I'll be right over_."


	5. Fruity Pebbles

5.

"He was fine, I swear." Rigby's tear swollen eyes exuded panic as she grabbed hold of House's arm, practically dragging him through front door. His cane tripped against the threshold and he stumbled, the wind escaping his lungs for a brief moment.

"_Was_, being the operative word here I take it. Otherwise I don't see why you would've called me." Rigby nodded, her tears splashing against the tip of her freckled nose as she clung firmly against his coat. House winced in pain as her bony fingertips snaked around his wrists, the wounds still rather raw and tender.

"We were just about to leave. Lucas was feeling better just like you said he would but he was hungry. So I poured him a bowl of cereal. You know - just something light." House's ears piqued at her words and he halted, the force of which almost caused the babbling girl to knock against him.

"_Please. _Tell me you didn't take the Fruity Pebbles," he said in a slow sort of growl. Rigby's features scrunched with evasion, her lashes flickering as she glanced about nervously.

"No?" she lied as her voice rose into an even higher and more breathy pitch. House sighed with exasperation. Meekly, Rigby clasped her hands together, rocking on the balls of her feet anxiously.

"Forget it," House bemoaned. "So then what?"

"He was fine, right? Then, like five minutes later – _just_ as we're walking out the door, he doubles over. I thought maybe he just ate too fast so I had him go sit down on the couch until it passed."

House's jaw clenched. " – if there's vomit on my couch," he warned. Rigby shook her head quickly.

"No, no. He made it to the bathroom."

"I fail to see where I'm needed, then. His stomach probably just wasn't ready for solid food. Any idiot could've told you that." House wriggled his wrist free from Rigby's possessive grasp, turning back towards the front door of his apartment. "And on that note I'm leaving. It was nice – well it was _something_, meeting you."

"Limpy, that's not why I called." House ceased, though whether it was from annoyance or the lack of tact that had been used - he wasn't sure. "You really need to go see him. Something's seriously not right." House's eyes shut.

"Will it make you leave my house?"

"Oh, gladly. This place _reeks_ of self pity and masturbation."

"You're cute. Have I mentioned that?" A loud heaving sound permeated the walls as it made it was way from the tiny bathroom. House groaned. "What's the problem again? I mean other than the fact that he's still puking his guts out."

Rigby cringed as the sounds of retching increased and she sunk against the doctor, biting her lower lip as she apprehensively peered around the corner. "His stomach. It's all puffy. Like a balloon."

"Not uncommon for someone who's been spending as much time over the toilet as he has for the past few hours. He's fine. Again, thank you for utterly wasting my time."

"There's like sludge too," Rigby piped up, pressing the smaller foot against the top of House's as if to hold him in place. "Brown stuff. Totally gross." House froze, his interest climbing as his mouth tightened in thought.

"Blood?" Rigby shook her head.

"I thought so at first. But it's not. I don't think blood smells like that." House clutched his cane.

"Smells like what?" Rigby's shoulders rose and fell.

"I don't know. Shit, I guess?" The underside of House's tongue exposed itself as he licked his bottom lip, his teeth grinding absently. "It's not all the time, though. But it's definitely been more than once. Other than that he's just been dry heaving."

"It could've been the Fruity Pebbles," House mused as he scratched at his chin. "That would be a pretty reasonable punishment for bogarting a gimp doctor's favorite breakfast."

"No he threw that up almost right away. The brown gunk was much later." House glanced at his watch and then once at the clock that hung on the wall above. He heaved a sigh before trudging with defeat towards the bathroom door.

"I'm only doing this because it'll piss Cuddy off. I was supposed to have clinic duty in twenty minutes but I guess I won't be making that now will I?" Rigby followed behind him on quiet tip toe, hiding behind his larger frame and oversized backpack he had yet to remove from his shoulder blade.

"I forgot to tell you," she announced suddenly as they stopped an inch shy of their destination. "Someone called for you like a minute before you got here."

"You answered my phone?"

"Lucas had a headache," Rigby said softly. "I thought the ringing would make it worse." House's fists flexed and his knuckles cracked as he shook his head.

"Did you take a message?" Rigby shrunk and her teeth dove against the flesh of her lip.

"I forgot," she warbled apologetically. "Don't be mad." House opened his mouth to speak, but found no words came out. "I remember his name though," she supplied with a helpful tone.

House brow arched. "Yeah?" Rigby nodded proudly.

"Yeah. Wilson."


	6. Yeah, Wilson

6.

House couldn't shake those two words. "Yeah. Wilson." There hadn't been the slightest inclination of drama or tension in her voice. Of course, how could she know the impact of those three intricate and eroding syllables? To her it was just another voice on the other end of the phone. Had he sounded worried? Perhaps in a state of perpetual longing? He'd practically thrown House off the line just a few minutes prior. Maybe he was coming to his senses – that it wasn't House's fault. Well, it was. Not the accident, that was for sure. More so the path Wilson's life had been leading as of late. But still, endless possibilities roamed his brain as he sat upon his office chair, tiny cartoons exploding upon the screen of his computer as he stared mindlessly at his phone – debating whether or not to pick it up and dial.

"It could be a trick," he reasoned with himself aloud. "After all these years with me, he had to have picked up something."

"You're not exactly mentor material, that's for sure." The imposing voice startled him and his chair slid back as his leg twitched. Cuddy stood in the doorway, her hip jutted against the frame with her arms crossed against her busting bosom. House's eyes were guarded as he glanced in her direction with a culpable sneer.

"And you're not exactly a prostitute but one step behind is almost just as good," he assured her deprecatingly as his brows furrowed. "Too bad it won't get you what you really want – daddy's love."

"Are we talking about my real father here or are _you_ daddy and describing some twisted pornographic fantasy of yours?"

"Cute," House said. "Almost as cute as your boyfriend's little friend he's been toting around. She's not house trained yet but give her time."

"She's a very sweet girl," Cuddy said carefully.

"But you don't like her," House stated as his pale blue eyes creased into two observational slits. Cuddy bristled, frowning.

"I didn't say that, did I?"

"Your lips, no. That frosty look that only years of heavily injected Botox will erase, yes." Cuddy sighed, running her fingers along the nape of her neck.

"I suppose I might've been a little jealous _at first_," she said as she emphasized the last two words heatedly. "But after seeing them together I realized there's nothing to be worried about. Besides," she added with embarrassed laughter. "It's not like he's my boyfriend or anything."

House smirked. "No, of course not."

"How's he doing by the way?" Eager to shift the subject, if even only a little – Cuddy's voice oozed with concern.

"Puked all over Kutner." Cuddy cringed, walking towards the desk, her arms tightening against her chest – which House couldn't help but notice was barely covered. His eyes flicked across the expanse of her flesh, a warming sensation overcoming him as his face flushed from doing so.

"Sounds awful," she said as she plopped down in the seat of the empty chair. House grinned.

"It may sound that way, but trust me. It was wonderful. It was so unexpected and he was so surprised that I could've sworn he was about to cry," House shared with a bizarre sort of delight, his face lighting up instantly.

"Lucas?" Cuddy seemed dubious. She readjusted her earrings, tightening the studs as she made sure they were still even along her lobes. "That doesn't really sound like him."

"It _does_ actually," House interposed. "_But_ I was talking about Kutner. Your boyfriend's gal pal went off to go help him clean himself up. I wouldn't be surprised if when Chase and Cameron go to take their lunch break in the supply closet they find themselves with a startling eyeful. See – one less reason to be jealous."

"I said I _was_ jealous. I'm not anymore," Cuddy corrected him, holding up a stiff finger strictly. She paused, her eyes lowering before she drew them back up to meet House's. "Thanks, though."

House sucked on his bottom lip, nodding as he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The room went silent. "You look really nice today," he muttered apprehensively.

Cuddy smiled, rising from the chair. Reaching forward she placed a delicate hand against House's cheek and gave it a discouraging pat. "Whatever you want House – the answer is _no_."


	7. Under the Sheets

7.

The neon numbers of the clock read later than it actually was, but it was still a lot closer to morning than House would've liked as he stumbled awkwardly through the archway of his apartment's front door. His limpid eyes were practically sunken due to hours of intense fretting, debating whether or not to pick up the phone. It seemed so much easier when he was the one doing the dialing. This felt too simple. This felt like a trap.

Catching a glimpse of his appearance in the small hallway mirror, House cringed ever so slightly. He was in desperate need of a shave and a few good hours of sleep. His leg throbbed with the usual dull ache as he thrust his jacket atop a lone hook on the coat rack. He glanced sideways towards the answering machine on the table. It didn't blink.

Maneuvering with a stagger, he made his way to the bedroom – ignoring the pounding that drummed throughout his ears. Bringing the crook of his elbow up against his mouth, he stifled an exhausted yawn. Every inch of his body felt exceedingly heavy. Even the smallest breath of air felt as though a tedious test of his strength. A feverish glow had been bursting along the length of his cheekbones for the past few hours - unwaveringly. Needlessly to say, he needed sleep. House tossed his backpack upon the floor. It made a soft thump as it clattered against a piled up tangle of laundry and strewn sneakers.

Fingertips working nimbly, he unbuttoned his jeans – sliding them off along with his shoes and socks and kicking them towards the pile. Running a hand across the back of his neck, he limped through the darkness in nothing but a tee shirt and a pair of plaid boxers. He fumbled for the sheets, pulling them back as he attempted to ease himself upon the mattress and delve into dreamless solitude – but something was in the way.

"Go away," the rumpled blankets moaned sleepily. House's eyes narrowed. He gave the covers a final yank until they spilt onto the floor revealing nothing but a balled up girl. "What the hell was that for?"

"Rigby – what the hell are you doing in my bed?" House bent down, gathering up the crumpled mess of sheets and covers. "Kutner said your flight left this afternoon."

"I couldn't leave Lucas," Rigby protested. Her lashes fluttered with the heaviness of sleep. " – he's _so_ sick."

"He'll be fine," House said angrily. "And for what it's worth – Lucas _isn't_ in my bed so you can stop looking for him there and get out." Rigby's lower lip trembled.

"The nurses said I'd keep him up if I stayed with him. They wouldn't let me. And I can't afford any of the hotels around here."

"So you thought you'd just break into my apartment and sleep in my bed?" Rigby fidgeted.

"You're the only person I know." House sighed, dropping the armful of blankets back atop the bed with a shake of his head.

"What about Cuddy?"

"Lisa? No, I got the feeling she doesn't really like me. Besides she scares me a little," Rigby admitted, drawing her knees to her chest as she sat up against the plump pillows.

"Cuddy? _Cuddy_ scares you but _I_ don't?" House said with a brisk laugh. "That's one I'll probably never hear again." He paused, a sickening feeling forming in the pit of his stomach as he realized her focus had drifted towards his leg. He tugged at the base of his boxers, careful not to pull them too far down – but dragging them far enough that some of the wound was hidden.

"I'm sorry," Rigby said at once. "Please don't be self conscious. Here," she announced as she bent her elbow and drew it closer to his face. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

House snorted. " - every bad porno I've ever watched."

"Just shut up and look. See?" she drew a circling motion in the air around a small area. House peered to where she was directing him – noticing a discoloration along the shape of her arm.

"What happened?" he asked with genuine curiosity, his head tilting as he continued to observe.

"I got attacked with a curling iron," she said as she brought her elbow back against her chest. "This lady I used to know – she just went ballistic one day. She showed up at my front door with a curling iron in her hand spouting some nonsense bullshit about how Lucas and his job had ruined her life. I guess she couldn't find him and thought I was the next best thing. A _curling iron_ though, man."

"I guess beauty really is pain," House mused softly. "If it wasn't plugged in then how did it burn you?"

"Battery operated. Every woman's two favorite words," Rigby said with a hint of a smirk as a strand of dark hair fell across her face. "Show me yours?" House froze, his mouth parting as he stared at her in quiet reserve. His fingers still clutched at what little fabric was shielding his leg from her prying eyes and a seizing fear was rolling around the confines of his heart. Licking his lips, he shook his head as a cold sweat washed over his face.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled as his chin lowered and his gaze fell towards the floor. Rigby shrugged.

"Don't worry about it. I understand," she said with a gentle smile. Her nose wrinkled as she looked him up and down. "You look tired."

"I am," House spat matter-of-factly. "Which brings us back to - _why_ are you in my bed?"

"I _told_ you," Rigby reminded him. "I don't know anyone else here."

"You and Kutner seemed to be getting pretty chummy earlier today."

"I didn't trust him." House's eyes widened and he let out another short laugh.

"Wait. Let me get this straight. You trust and feel safer with _me_ than Cuddy or _Kutner_?" Rigby nodded, a childish smile appearing on her waifish mouth. "You're _joking_ right?"

"I don't understand," Rigby said with a dubious brow. Pressing his palms against his face, House groaned into his hands.

"This isn't happening," he bemoaned through slightly spread fingers.

"What isn't?"

"I spend my entire day surrounded by morons," House grunted, his hands still tightly held against his features. "Then to come home to this?"

"I don't think they're morons," Rigby countered as she rested her chin against her knees. "In fact, they seem pretty brilliant."

"You're missing the point. I come home to get away from everybody. In case you haven't noticed," House stated as he dropped his hands from his face, "I'm not really fond of _people_."

"No," Rigby gasped sarcastically. "House, you don't say."

The room went suddenly silent and the two figures locked eyes, staring one another down. Neither flinched. House felt the same uncomfortable sensation crash over him and he pursed his lips.

"You're looking at my leg," he murmured disapprovingly. "Stop."

"Let me sleep here tonight," Rigby bartered, her tone even and strong. Her brow arched as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Fine. You can sleep on the couch." House gave in with a sigh, his hand once more pulling at his boxer shorts, trying to stretch the fabric down around his scar. Rigby shook her head defiantly.

"No. I get the bed. I'm not the asshole here."

"Aren't _you_ the persistent one." He paused. "It's my house – _my_ bed," House said.

"If you want the bed you'll just have to share it with me then." And with that, Rigby turned on her side, reaching for the mass of covers as she pulled a few up towards her chin.

"You're kidding, right?" House yawned loudly.

"No and _you're_ clearly exhausted. Just accept your losses and get your ass in bed." Silence filled the room once more. "House?"

"What?"

"I'm serious." House sighed.

"Move over," he grumbled as he clambered onto the mattress, sliding his legs and torso beneath the sheets. Shutting his eyes he awaited the comfort of sleep he had been desperately longing for. However, instead of quiet slumber he found himself wide eyed and awake, gazing up at the ceiling intently. The sound of tears splattering on cotton and soft whimpers crashed through the static of the stillness. "Rigby?" he muttered. "Rigby?" He nudged the curled figure beside him. A hand reached out and smacked his chest.

"Holy shit go to bed," Rigby said with a groan. House paused, taken aback.

"I thought I heard you crying."

"I'm fine. You're delusional. Get some sleep." Though unconvinced, House closed his eyes and drew a long breath – exhaling bit by bit as he allowed his exhaustion to take full control of him.

"Goodnight, Rigby." Rigby groaned louder, once again reaching out her hand to gently hit House – her fingertips coming down swiftly upon his stomach.

"Go to bed, House." He heard her pause, shifting as she stretched her legs beneath the covers. "Hey, House?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you remember to call your friend? I know we left in a hurry this afternoon because of Lucas."

"What now?"

"Wilson. Did you call back Wilson?" House chest felt suddenly tight and he cleared his throat.

"No," he replied with a raspy sadness. "No. I didn't." Rigby turned, glancing over her shoulder as she peered through the darkness to read his face.

"You okay?" House nodded. "Are you sure you didn't just hear _yourself _crying?" she teased. Her eyes weren't swollen, he noticed. Perhaps he had been imagining it after all. Rigby shrugged. "Whatever you say." Yawning, she returned to her position upon the pillow and closed her eyes. "Goodnight, House."

"Are you wearing one of my shirts?"

"Goodnight, House."


	8. Grandmothers Lie

8.

"Don't tell me," Lucas let out a fragile laugh. "I made it onto your infamous whiteboard, didn't I?" House paced back and forth across the cramped hospital room's floor. The soles of his sneakers squeaked against the sticky tile. "I thought it was just food poisoning, man."

Taub stepped forward, adjusting the long and string of wire and tube that hooked into the private investigator's IV. Lucas exhaled grumpily, slouching against the lumpy mess of pillows and stale smelling sheets. "Most likely that _is_ the case," Taub assured. "But we're just keeping you here to make sure."

Lucas' face contorted into a grimace, immediate displeasure resounding throughout his features. Sweaty palms grappled with his engorged abdomen as perspiration rolled along his brow. He moaned - his teeth grinding against one another as a slight froth brewed around the corners of his mouth. Saliva spilled in a stream from his parted lips, dripping onto the cloth below.

"It's not food poisoning," House said in a low tone. Taub glanced upwards, his large nose scrunching as he eyed both the doctor and the private investigator with a perceived notion of chagrin.

"You're wrong," Taub argued slowly in a rather nasal voice. His hands moved as he spoke, as though trying to paint a more believable and elaborate picture. "If it was anything else he would've had more symptoms by now. Stomach pain and vomiting are classic signs of food poisoning."

"It's not food poisoning," House repeated. "There's too much swelling. It would've gone down by now."

"Not necessarily. If he hasn't gotten everything out of his system then some of the toxins could still be reacting with his body."

"I think it's safe to say I've gotten everything out of my system by now," Lucas said with a wry smile. Fatigue clouded his eyes and he shut them, his chest laboring as his lungs strove to breathe. House nodded in agreement.

"Just ask Kutner," House said as he pointed his cane towards the quieter doctor who stood in the corner, silently reading the private investigator's chart.

At the mention of his name Kutner's neck craned and his eyes flickered towards the two voices. "House is right. Anything he had left in his stomach is now on my favorite sweater in the dumpster outside. It's not food poisoning."

"Two against one. Where's Thirteen when you need her?" House peered through the glass walls on the side of the room. "Little Miss Huntington's has just been a _plethora_ of ideas and suggestions recently."

"Lunch with Cuddy – said they were going to talk about _girl_ stuff," Kutner supplied, gnawing on the cap of his pen as he shifted his feet idly.

"I bet they are." House smirked.

"You can stop fantasizing House," Taub interrupted coldly. "Despite what you might like to think is going on, Cuddy doesn't swing that way."

"That hasn't been proven," House debated.

"Maybe its worms," Kutner blurted. House's gaze shifted.

"I beg your pardon?" Taub questioned.

Kutner sighed noisily. "Lucas," he explained.

House brought the handle of his cane against his chin, tapping it along his bone in contemplation. "A parasite could explain most of the symptoms."

"No," Taub shook his head. "Parasites would've shown up in a test already."

"Not all of them," Kutner argued. "We weren't really looking for them in the first place, anyway." Lucas cleared his throat timidly, his lashes fluttering with anxiety as he sunk his teeth against his lower lip.

"Are you saying I have worms?" he clarified. "Like a dog?"

"It's possible," Kutner admitted with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Lucas shuddered, grimacing.

"That's – _disgusting_."

"Not half as disgusting as what you did to my sweater yesterday," Kutner snapped, tossing the chart down atop the counter as his arms immediately crossed against his chest. "That was a gift from my grandmother. She made it for me."

"It was from Wal-Mart. I've seen it a million times on a hundred different people." Lucas scratched at the loose pieces of tape around the IV planted in his forearm. "And clearly I didn't mean to."

"You could've said you were sorry," Kutner mumbled, his cheeks flushing with mortification at his sudden outburst.

"I'm sorry," Lucas apologized in a dull monotone. "_Happy_?" Turning a deeper red, Kutner nodded and scuttled back towards the corner of the room – suddenly fascinated with a scattered mess of unmarked needles in one of the many opened cabinet drawers.

House broke the tension. "Get a stool sample. Test for parasites. Call me when you get the results."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding." Lucas shook his head. "A stool sample? No way."

"You're embarrassed?" House asked incredulously. "You do realize that gown you're wearing isn't exactly modest, right?"

"Yeah but, _I don't know_. That's just weird," Lucas mumbled, his eyes focused on the pads of his fingertips.

"Fine." House sighed. "Get someone from the lab to get a stool sample," he barked towards both Taub and Kutner.

" – _it wasn't from Wal-Mart_," Kutner muttered beneath his breath as he walked past the array of machines and wires – heading for the door alongside Taub.

"It _was_." Lucas shouted after him. "Just let it go. Take it like a man." Kutner turned over his shoulder, glaring at the private investigator. Lucas winced. "He's not taking it well."

"I'm not surprised," House noted with a faint grin. Lucas' brow arched and he folded his hands together, staring at the thin tubes beside him.

"Think he'll get over it anytime soon?"

House shook his head, the same derisive smirk curled upon his lips. "Don't bet on it."

"House?"

"Yeah?" House leaned against his cane.

"_Move_." Lucas lurched forward, a concoction of bloodied bile erupting from his tongue as he clutched the sheets between balled fists.

"_Damn_," he cursed softly as the private investigator's heaves began to subside.

With trembling hands, Lucas wiped the smears of blood from the corner of his mouth – the hints of froth returning as a rush of nurses clamored through the door. "_What_?" he warbled feebly.

House shook his head with a tired sigh. "It's not worms either."


	9. Holly Homemaker

9.

The distant sounds of metal pots being thrashed about resounded throughout the apartment. Donning a checkered apron and the same oven mitts from the evening before, Rigby dashed back and forth as a small puff of smoke billowed from the boiling teapot atop the nearest burner. The cap hissed and whistled in a shrill shriek. "_Shit_," she cursed.

House watched on from his perch on the couch, bemused by her erratic behavior. However, despite his previous complaints she wasn't as horrible a chef as he had let on and it had been quite some time since he'd had an actual meal.

"Are we burning down my apartment yet?" House shouted over his hunched shoulder blade. His fingertips were busily kneading the massive tangle of gauze around his wrists, peeling each flimsy layer back – revealing three long gashes upon his epidermis. The cold air felt strange against his flesh and he winced, a short spasm shooting like a burst of electricity through his spinal cord.

"This is insane," Rigby complained from the steamy depths of the kitchen. She let out a slight cough, waving away the smoke and warmth from around her face. "I can't believe I agreed to this."

"You wanted a place to stay until Lucas was better," House said. "It was either this or the stain covered cot in Kutner's bedroom."

"Did you actually get a good look at the cot?" Rigby challenged. "I wouldn't put it past you to make something like that up."

"Semen-city," House replied.

"Gross," Rigby grumbled in response. "So then I guess in that means I really _am_ stuck here playing housewife. _Fantastic_."

House grinned broadly, a rare flicker of delight gleaming in his weary blue eyes. "Isn't it though? Now get back in there and make me something delicious woman." He glanced towards the petite girl as she glowered disapprovingly. "Beer too."

"Oh I'll give you some beer all right," she threatened.

"That doesn't make _any_ sense."

"Enslavement was not part of the agreement, House."

"Who said anything about enslaving? I'm just asking you to do some of the normal household chores while you're here," House sat back against the couch, scratching at his forearm idly.

"Normal means they've been done at least once before in the previous century. I dusted your shelves today and I swear you could make a fur coat out of what I found." Rigby frowned as House continued to drag his fingernails against his shallow sores - her gray eyes darkening as she chewed against the inside of her cheek. "You're going to start bleeding if you're not careful."

"Does it matter?"

Rigby shrugged. "You tell me. You're the one who flipped out when you thought Lucas threw up over there. I guess it's not the same when it comes to blood, then?" House ignored her, though dropping his hands into his lap with a labored sigh.

"Are you going to be like this the whole time?"

"Like what?"

"You know," House said. Rigby's gaze was stern.

"Enlighten me."

"A pain in the ass."

Opening her mouth to speak, Rigby hesitated – a fire blazing across her features as she held a stiff finger before her face. No sound came out, only a sharp squawk. "You are unbelievable – do you know that?"

"I do, actually. It's been said to me on numerous occasions."

"House, seriously – eat shit." The phone began to ring and both pairs of eyes drifted towards the numbers that scrawled across the answering machine as a red light flickered off and on. "Is it the hospital?"

House shook his head, his pulse halting as he recognized the digits scrolling before him. "No," he murmured. "No, it's not." _Wilson_.

Wilson was calling. House didn't pick up.


	10. Cat Scratch or Kinky Sex

10.

"How's he doing?" Cuddy entered the hospital room, treading gently as to not disturb the slumbering private investigator. Her voice was hushed and her eyes haggard. House sat, slouched in one of the three cushioned seats – his cane at his crossed feet, his fingertips carelessly flipping through the thin pages of an outdated fashion magazine.

"About the same. He's stopped puking for the time being."

"Well that sounds promising," Cuddy said with a trace of a relieved sigh. Smoothing the ruffles upon her blouse, she took the second seat. House's countenance creased and he glanced away from the columns of pictorials and indented text for a brief moment.

"Technically we stopped feeding him – so that _might_ have something to do with it." House grated his wrist with his uneven fingernails absentmindedly. He could hear the sudden swell and intake of oxygen as Cuddy caught sight of the light switchblade inflicted wounds. Lucas stirred halfway across the room with a muffled snore, turning against the crisp white sheets.

"_House_," Cuddy cautioned tenderly. House bristled, drawing the brightly colored magazine a mere inch or two away from his face – burying himself into its perfume drenched pages. "What happened?"

"Cat."

Cuddy glared knowingly, her hands resting atop his knee which had begun to tremor violently, his foot tapping against the ground in a vacillating beat. "You don't have a cat, House."

"Kinky sex." House's words were barely recognizable from behind the thick wad of advertisements and photographs.

"Then why did you say cat?"

"The hooker's name was Cat."

Cuddy's eyes rolled and she retracted her fingertips from their place atop his knee. "Amazing," she marveled with a curt tone.

"What?" House peered out from over the top of the magazine, his gaze flitting around them room before settling upon his still nervously quaking foot.

"Your inability to commit to anything but lies."

"Is that a compliment?" Cuddy's shoulders lifted and fell.

"In your bizarre universe, it probably is."

"Then - _thank you_." A dampened whine pierced the stagnant room and both doctors glanced towards the noise's origin. Lucas was coiled in the fetal position, a frothy residue leaking from between nude lips. Cuddy was the first to rise, rushing to the side of the bed.

"Lucas?" Her hand grazed his arched back. "It's Lisa," she whispered with subtle assurance. House lagged behind, his cane scratching the surface of the floor as he hobbled as briskly as his aching leg allowed.

"Lucas," he snapped tersely. "You're not going to throw up. You're fine." Lucas shook his head with vigor, his face an interesting combination of purples and reds as he bared a set of grit teeth. Perspiration practically melted from his epidermis, soaking all the way around him. He writhed, whimpering as he thrashed back and forth.

"_Does_ it hurt?" Cuddy questioned, glaring at House. "Honestly, you can be so insensitive." Lucas nodded, fingers uncontrollably ripping at his scalp.

"Yes to me being an insensitive jerk or yes to pain?"

"I never called you a jerk, House."

"I read the footnote." Lucas burrowed his face against his pillow, bursting into empty sobs as he continued to squirm about.

"_Pain_," he wheezed through staggered breaths. Cuddy's brow lifted as she glanced at House.

"Appendicitis?" House shook his head, retrieving a syringe from the nearby table of equipment. Yanking the top and seal off with the underside of his teeth, he sank the needle into the configuration of tubes attached to the private investigator's forearm.

"Had his appendix taken out when he was a kid," he muttered – the top of the syringe still clutched between his ivory teeth. Leaning back a bit, he spit heartily – launching the piece of plastic across the room and onto the floor.

The medicine seemed to be taking effect. Lucas's sporadic movements eased and his breathing grew less strenuous by the second. Cuddy smiled gently, lines appearing at the corners of her eyes.

"Do you want me to stay here with you?" Her hand grasped Lucas'. A strange possessiveness thudded within House's chest as he observed the sudden display of affection. There was something about her hand entwined with someone else's that left the feeling of a hole opening beneath his feet and swallowing him into it's endless pit. He cleared his throat loudly, fist against his mouth.

Lucas winced, uncomfortably. "_Actually_ - do you think you could get a hold of Rigby?" he questioned hoarsely, coughing loudly.

"Wow. Awkward," House muttered. Cuddy flashed what was obviously a forced smile, her cheeks seemingly frozen as she nodded stiffly.

"Sure," she stammered with bewilderment. "I'll go call her." Tearing her hand away from the private investigator's, she stormed from the room in a visible huff. House's eyes twinkled mischievously.

"You must really hate yourself," he noted ominously. Lucas stared at him.

"Excuse me?" He was sitting up straight now, all signs of pain having vanished from his features though his speaking still sounded strained.

"You just ruined any chance you had of getting laid."

"What're you talking about?"

"Blowing off your girlfriend for another woman. A _classic_ mistake." House clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

"First of all, she's not my girlfriend. Second of all I didn't blow off anyone."

"Sure you did. Or at least – that's how your _girlfriend_ sees it." Lucas grunted with frustration.

"Stop saying that," he demanded. "Just because you're secretly pining for her doesn't mean you have to torment me, especially when I feel like such shit." House recoiled at the private investigator's choice of words.

"I don't _pine_. And if I did it certainly wouldn't be for Cuddy. The woman's ass has its own hemisphere. There's absolutely no pining taking place," he corrected brashly. "And I'm just trying to help you. Women are a lot more predictable then men think – men just _don't _think most of the time."

"Right," Lucas said apprehensively. "I'll keep that in mind, House."

"You won't, but I appreciate the lie. Let me ask you a question."

"All right. It's not like I've got anything better to do." Lucas motioned to the monitors surrounding him with a sheepish grin.

House paused, running the tip of his tongue against the underside of his molars. "Why did you lie to Rigby?" Lucas' brow furrowed.

"I hate to repeat myself but – _what're you talking about_?"

"A construction worker?" House laughed callously. "I mean c'mon. Underneath her exterior of pure evil, Rigby's a sweet girl but there's no way she's dumb enough to believe that."

"Don't call her dumb," Lucas snapped. His face suddenly darkened.

"That's the point. I didn't. I just don't understand why she'd be so willing to believe that hunk of bullshit you flung her way. I mean – is there something wrong with her?" House inquired, ignoring the commotion of nurses chatting excitedly outside the glass walls.

Lucas sneered. "She's a happy and fun person so – _yeah_, I guess in _your_ world something's wrong with her," he muttered with intensely acidic cynicism. House groaned, rubbing his face with his hands.

"You're missing what I'm trying to say."

"Then say it already." House sighed.

"If she's your best friend then why wouldn't you just tell her the truth?" Lucas pursed his lips.

"Like how you always told _Wilson_ the truth?" House froze.

" - low blow."

"_Sorry_," Lucas apologized with sincerity. "I don't know. I _guess - _to protect her?" he offered though unconvincingly. The constant drip of his IV bag chimed as it emptied itself into his bloodstream slowly. House nodded to himself, resting the handle of his cane beneath his chin.

"Because of the elbow incident?"

Lucas grinned boyishly. "She showed you that? Yeah," he shook his head as he whistled beneath his breath. "That was some insane shit. I'm telling you, man. That came out of nowhere too. It wasn't even some big scandal. This woman just wanted to know if the guy she paid to watch her dogs was using her bathroom when she was out of the apartment. When I told her he was she seemed fine, you know? Then two hours later I get this tearful call from Rigby while she's waiting in the emergency room to be seen for third degree burns because some crazy bitch thinks a man with a bladder ruined her life."

"Maybe he didn't have good aim. No one likes piss stained wallpaper."

"She was just a nut job. The guy was a pretty straight shooter." House opened his mouth, shutting it quickly as he did a full double take.

"Do I want to know how you would know that?" Lucas' nose wrinkled and he shook his head with a wince.

" – don't think so."

"Have you ever thought about telling her the truth?"

"Who? Rigby? _No_," he said as he exhaled forlornly.

"_Pathetic_. Be a man." House chewed his lip thoughtfully. "It's not like if you told her she'd flee the border or anything. And there's not much she could do about it because - I mean, at the _very _least you've dug up enough by now to have blackmail on hand and ready to go," House said rather enviously. Lucas smirked.

"Not everyone is as intent on destroying everything good that comes their way the way you are, House."

"I'm going to pretend I don't know what you mean by that remark." Lucas laughed quietly, flinching as another round of icy fluids filled the tubes against his arms. "What was the worst thing you found? I'll bet anything there's a brutal slaying of some man's ego in there somewhere - probably a few smashed testicles along the way."

"Maybe. I dunno'. Truth be told, I never looked," Lucas admitted with a shrug. His hands rested upon his distended stomach, cringing as a bolt of pain danced amongst his nerves. He swallowed, gulping at what little saliva his mouth could produce. House eyed him curiously.

"Never looked?"

"Yeah. I never looked." House seemed aghast.

"_Why_? I mean when someone has the _connections_ like you do," he trailed off, completely flabbergasted at what he was hearing.

" – then you don't go poking around in someone else's business just so you have someone to put on speed dial," Lucas finished softly. "My job is my job. My friends are my friends. They're not connected in any way."

"But you investigated me," House countered, still blatantly confused.

"We're not friends," Lucas put simply. "You're my employer – though I use that term loosely since I haven't really received any compensation for my services yet."

"You investigated Cuddy," House pointed out defiantly.

"I thought she was hot," Lucas mumbled as an embarrassed flush crept along his cheeks.

"So you thought you could snoop your way into her pants? Please," House scoffed loudly as he shook his head. "I'm not buying it. I can guarantee that you've pulled out a notebook's worth of stuff on each person you've so much as bumped into in this hospital – but you expect me to believe that you've never once dug into Rigby's life because she's a _friend_? Something else is going on."

"You're crazy," Lucas interjected hastily. House's jaw tightened and his eyes opened wide, a hint of a gasp exuding from his lungs.

"And _you're_ in love."

"Look, I _like _Cuddy. But I'm definitely _not_ in love." House stamped his cane against the tiled floor with vehemence.

"Not Cuddy, you idiot. _Rigby_. It makes perfect sense," he mused as he began to pace aimlessly towards the row of tiny chairs.

"Of course you'd say that," Lucas muttered. "You're so busy pining over Cuddy that it's completely warped your reality."

"Again with the pining? What are you? Shakespeare?"

"Well whatever I am I'm _clearly_ more coherent than you at the moment."

"You don't _want_ to look into her life," House said as his face alit with the excitement of realization. "You're terrified that if you do you'll find something that will make her less than perfect. And you can't handle that so you avoid it altogether."

"I never said she was perfect," Lucas faltered. He fidgeted against the stiff mattress of the hospital bed, his thumbs winding against one another.

"No one's perfect."

"Except for you, right?"

"Finally, you understand." Lucas massaged the bridge of his nose, groaning with a small grin.

"I can't imagine what it's like to live in that head of yours, House. All the delusions from over-abuse of painkillers throughout the years."

"I'm right and you know it," House murmured. A soft knock rang out and both men glanced towards the door. Cuddy stood, plainly still upset with a tightened frown.

"Rigby said she'll be here in about half an hour," she said coolly, avoiding eye contact on both accounts. "If you need me, I'll be in my office." With that, she quickly strode off down the hall and out of sight.

"Is this the part where I sing the song about kissing in a tree then love, marriage, and the baby in the baby carriage?" House remarked wittingly. Lucas snarled, pulling the sheets up and over his head as he growled.

"House?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."


	11. Videostar

an. i'm sorry to repost. the site kept showing it as an error and slicing the chapter. at least this was how it appeared from my computer. so i wanted to try and post it again to see if that might help the issue. thank you all for the wonderful reviews by the way. they mean so much.

* * *

11.

"What's that?" Rigby pointed to a plastic bag brimming with clear liquid. Intertwined with Lucas' frame, she laid atop the sheets with her head on his shoulder – curled along the crook of his arm.

Thirteen's gaze shifted from the monitor she was reading, a dizzying flurry of numbers lighting up along the screen. "That's fluid."

Lucas situated his arm around the small girl, bringing her tightly against his warm flesh as she rested her soft cheek against his exposed collarbone. "I told you before – remember Rigs? They've got to drain the stuff from my stomach." Rigby nodded naively, her mascara coated lashes wavering with understanding.

"Technically it's not _in_ your stomach. You know the stomach is actually quite higher than most people perceive. A large number tend to associate it with the intestinal area." Thirteen seemed uncomfortable, awkward even. Kutner stood behind her, silently stewing – most likely _still_ about his ruined sweater.

"Will it go away when you're done?" Rigby questioned worriedly.

"I guess that all depends on what's causing it in the first place. If we can figure that out – _which I have no doubt that we can_," Kutner assured confidently. "Then it really shouldn't pose as a reoccurring problem."

"The nurses said you were able to keep down some solid food this afternoon. That seems to be a good sign." Thirteen peered at the private investigator. "Are you feeling any better at _all_, Lucas?"

Lucas forced a listless shrug. "I suppose."

"Maybe it was just the flu?" Rigby suggested hopefully. Kutner shook his head insistently.

"You don't vomit bowel movements with the flu," he said. "Though, you have to admit that was pretty bitchin' dude."

"Not as bitchin' from this side of it," Lucas said while flashing a frail grin. Kutner leaned closely towards the private investigator, out of Thirteen's earshot.

"Do you think it'd be okay if I took a video with my cell phone if it happens again?" he whispered with discretion. Rigby's eyes rolled. "It's just that I'd really love to show this to my friends. I mean, only if you're okay with it."

Lucas couldn't help but laugh. "Sure, man. I don't care." Glee illuminated Kutner's features as he pulled away from the hospital bed and nodded to himself.

"I don't mean that I _want _it to happen again," he explained hastily, fearful that he had insulted the patient. "I'm just saying that if it _does_," he trailed off mid sentence as he bit his lower lip.

" – then you can do whatever you want," Lucas guaranteed. "As _long_ as you don't let it get in the way of – you know, keeping me alive."

"_Dr. Hadley_." Each face turned towards the door that no one had noticed had opened. Cuddy stood, a rigid frown creasing her lips as she kept her eyes to the floor. "Cameron requested your help in the emergency room."

"A consultation?" Thirteen inquired.

"Another body to keep the teeming masses at bay," Cuddy replied snappily. "Now please go and do as you are told or you'll be stuck serving clinic duty with House."

Kutner snickered. "What did House do now?"

"Nothing. I just enjoy punishing him," Cuddy said as an impish grin sketched itself across the contour of her painted mouth. Her mood soured immediately though as she shot the private investigator an icy look. "_Lucas_," she muttered curtly. "I'm glad to see you're doing better."

"Really? Because you look kind of pissed off to me," Rigby murmured innocently as she craned her neck towards the side - Lucas's arm still clasped protectively around her as they lay coiled together upon the hospital bed. Lucas hushed her, shaking his head.

"_Rigby_," he advised gently through parched lips. "Not now." The tiny girl pouted with discouragement, sinking against the private investigator as wrapped her arm around his chest, pinching at the fabric of his gown – listening to his heartbeat in silence.

"_Don't be mad_," she whimpered against the nape of his neck, her lips close enough to feel the veins below his flesh throbbing with each pulsating motion. "I'm sorry."

Cuddy watched in silence as Lucas held the girl tenderly, shaking his head as he drew her closer towards him. "Don't be silly, Rigs. I'm not mad."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"You pinky swear?"

"If I could lift my pinky without ripping my IV out, then _of course_ – pinky swear."

Rigby let out a soft coo. "Oh you poor sick boy." Her fingertips circled his distended stomach, giving it a gentle pat. "Want me to rub your belly?" Lucas opened his mouth to reply but was promptly cut off.

"Oh, so to _you_ she's sunshine and rainbows but to the rest of the male population she's every testicle's nightmare." House had appeared behind Cuddy, who still stood at the door with a look of sheer rage pasted across her face.

"I'm out of here," Cuddy muttered irately. Holding her hands up in the air she stomped off, the sound of her patent heels clicking against the linoleum echoing at full volume.

"Lisa," Lucas called out to no avail - she had already vanished. House whistled.

"Strike two," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm betting that if you're not careful – by the end of the day you won't have a girlfriend." Kutner's interest seemed to pique.

"I'll take that bet," he said eagerly, thrusting a fistful of neatly folded dollar bills beneath House's nose. House eyed the young doctor warily.

"I'm almost afraid to ask you how you managed to pull those out so fast," he murmured.

Kutner's cheeks darkened. "I keep my extra change tucked into my undershirt," he explained with a mumble. "In case I ever get robbed or something."

"Two hundred dollars is extra change?" House's mouth was agape as he counted through the stack of bills. Kutner shrugged. "What are you – sidelining as a _stripper_?"

Kutner beamed with amusement. "If that were true then apparently I'm pretty good," he said smugly as he snatched the wad of paper back from House's clutches. "But forget it. Bet's off."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"I don't listen to strippers. They're not _quite_ people. Only a step or two below, but still."

"I never said I was a stripper."

"Of course you're not. That's your alter-ego Lawrence Kum-on-Her's job, isn't it?"

"Are we talking about stripping or a porno?"

"Guys?" Rigby's voice wavered through the arguing.

House ignored her. "We could talk porno."

"_Guys_."

"You know any good ones?"

"_Limpy__._"

House sighed dramatically. "Rigby, what?"

"He's shitting through his mouth again." Kutner whipped around in a speedy blur, his cell phone opened and readily in hand with enthusiastic anticipation. House shot him a quizzical look. Kutner merely shrugged.

"Hey. Don't judge me. He _promised_."


	12. Check, Please

12.

"Rough day?" House inquired as he snatched the open booth across from the table at which Cuddy sat with an empty wine glass in hand. She bobbed back and forth slightly, tipsy from the onslaught of colorful drinks she had been ordering for the past few hours. Curling her index finger, Cuddy snorted drunkenly and scoffed aloud.

"_Please_," she droned with an audible slur. House watched as the blood vessels throbbed along her retinas and a dewy glow flushed her face. "I think you know me a little bit better than that."

House's brow rose with intrigue as he raised two fingertips in the air, motioning for the bartender to scavenge along another set of brightly lit alcohol. "Better than what?" A limp dullness clouded Cuddy's eyes as she squinted at the unshaven doctor.

" – that I'm _not_ the type of person who would just drown all their sorrows away with a couple of beers and tequila," she spurned dramatically, arms flailing about as she shook her head.

"No," House agreed as he slowly licked his lips. "But you also aren't the type of person to drain a bar of its tiny umbrella supply on a Wednesday night either." House lifted one of the small paper decorated toothpicks, a fiery fuchsia design with ornate flowers lilting along its sides. Tucking it behind his ear, he grinned slightly at the lolling woman. "How do I look?"

"House," Cuddy held back her smirk.

"It's all right. Let loose with the complimenting vernacular. Don't be afraid of such words as _dashing_, and _godlike_."

"_Dashing and godlike_? Aren't we the humble ones today."

"Yes well I'd have to assume you would need to water it down with terms like those since they actually haven't yet created a word to describe my utmost appeal."

"_Nice_," Cuddy said with sarcastic intonation. "And how exactly would you describe someone like me? Idiotic, foolish - far too trusting of the opposite sex?"

"I'm sensing you're upset," House muttered. The bartender strode by the booth, slamming the order of alcohol upon the surface of the table like structure. House pointed towards Cuddy, yelling as the staffer disappeared into the small crowd. "_This goes on her tab_!"

Cuddy groaned as House sipped at the large mug of beer, froth foaming at the crest of his upper lip. He swallowed lightly. "House, why are you here?"

"Because I think you're reading way too much into this Lucas thing than you should be," he said after a moment's hesitation. Taking another heady sip, his eyes steadied as they focused upon her. "I don't think you should be so quick to judge his friendship with Rigby." Cuddy laughed curtly.

"Friendship? House, she was all over him. In front of me, nonetheless."

"So you're really mad at Rigby, then." Cuddy shook her head adamantly, waggling her finger before his nose as he continued to down the warm glass of brew.

"_Incorrect_. I'm mad at _Lucas_," she announced with a defiant and drunken lisp.

"But he wasn't the one doing all the excessive fawning," House argued defensively.

"But he wasn't stopping it. I was right there House," she warbled morosely as she rested her chin atop the palms of her hands, elbows propped. "It's obvious how little my feelings mean to him and therefore it's obvious how little _I_ mean to him."

"I'm telling you – I really think they're friends. And nothing more."

"Friends don't paw at each other like that. I mean, _the way she had her hands all over him_." Cuddy shuddered from her perch atop her hands. House watched her from over the rim of his glass. The liquid had almost completely drained from it's container into the pit of his stomach, the alcohol pulsating within his system. He paused, lips pursed as he peered at her curiously. Black stringy curls were hanging loosely around her cheeks, unruly and damp.

"Beautiful and blessed with an ass that won't quit," he mused sharply. Cuddy's stared at him, perplexed.

"I beg your pardon?"

House nodded to himself, setting the now empty mug down. "You asked how I would describe you. I didn't get a chance to answer."

"Don't worry about it. You were busy charging your addictions to my credit card bill," Cuddy said bitterly.

"I prefer _lifestyle choice_ to addiction," House mused. "It makes me feel better about myself."

Cuddy's eyes rolled visibly. "Because that's what we all aim for every morning we drag ourselves out of bed – how to make _you_ feel good. We write you the prescriptions. We hand feed you the pills. We give you shots when the pills don't work. We let you fake your way through rehab. I'll bet you've figured out the huge secret by now too," she drawled snidely as she motioned for House to lean closer. "Thirteen doesn't even _like_ women. She just likes seeing how much joy it brings you to get your hormones raging on those dull Monday mornings."

House seemed taken aback by the sudden ambush of verbal abuse. He faltered, stammering as he inched backwards. "I was just teasing." He bit his lower lip, his wan blue eyes narrowing. "That's what _we_ do. I joke, you laugh it off and everyone's happy."

Cuddy frowned, and House could swear he saw the beginnings of moisture forming along the corners of her hazy eyes. "Well I'm _not_ happy," she shouted, her fists pounding delicately upon the plastic surface of the table.

"There's no reason you shouldn't be," House offered. "You have no proof that _anything_ is going on with Lucas and Rigby and besides," he said. "You've been saying all along that he isn't your boyfriend."

"I didn't want to jinx anything," she groaned as she clasped her face with her fingertips. "I thought it would turn out like Murphy's Law or something."

"You're a lot of things. Insane, busty, cheaply dressed, smart, awful singer, well the list goes on for miles really – but superstitious isn't one of them. Or at least it wasn't before." He furrowed his brows. "What's going on?" Cuddy shrugged with a sigh.

"I guess when you start to hear the ticking of your biological clock you panic. The more time that passes the louder it gets and it just starts to wear you down."

"Ah, yes. Well we all know how Captain Hook turned out – him and that damned crocodile."

"Except in my fairytale there's only ovaries getting more and more barren by the year and almost every statistic betting against my chances."

"_That's_ a fairytale I'd read," House said. "And when Disney gets the rights to turn it into a mess of cartoons and sugary music I will be first in line at the movie theater."

"_Actually_ you'd get there late, be last in line and then belittle and badger your way to the front." Cuddy smiled tenderly. House's heart leapt at her sudden display of an emotion other than dreary melancholy.

"Want a ride home?" he offered gently, a quiet shyness dominating his tongue as he glanced briefly at his feet. "I know you do. Chicks dig the motorcycle."

"Some chicks, maybe." Cuddy smirked coyly, brushing black tendrils from her line of vision. She studied House for a quiet moment. Resting the tip of her tongue against the back of her front teeth, clicking it softly she nodded to herself. Reaching forward she brought her face against his own, her lips grazing his ever so soothingly. The scent of gin and other assorted flavors wafted from her breath as she murmured against the warmth of his skin. "I know this is the alcohol talking and I'm going to regret it in the morning but all right, House. _You can take me home_."

House lifted his arm into the air immediately. "Check, please."


	13. Peas

an - thank you all for being so patient. i wanted to take some time to really think out where i want the story to go. so no, i'm not giving up on it at all. i just don't want to start writing a bunch of crap and then hating it completely. your reviews have been so wonderful. thank you so much! please keep reading and reviewing.

* * *

13.

"Excuse me." The sound of a soft knock pattered against the glass door of the private investigator's hospital room. Rigby glanced towards the suddenly occupied doorway, her eyes swollen and her cheeks raw and stained with tears. Lifting her hands, she wrapped the edges of her sweatshirt's sleeves around her thumbs and began to dab at her moist lashes, her nose sniffling loudly. The plastic chair she sat upon squeaked morosely as she shifted her weight. Kutner sat in the seat beside her, flipping through the thick pages of a medical textbook. His eyes scanned each word intently as they flurried across the dialogues of parchment.

"Can I help you?" A man entered the threshold, almost hesitantly. His feet seemed to have a different idea as to what they should be doing than his head did. He wore a buttoned down white dress shirt with a pale gray tie, knotted tightly around his throat. For someone so put together, he seemed to be doing nothing more than falling apart.

"Wilson?" Kutner seemed taken aback, the textbook snapping shut with a thunderous smash. Wilson nodded, his head directing towards that of the private investigator who remained still and stiff against the rigid hospital sheets.

"Should I be whispering?" he inquired gently. Kutner shook his head, a slight smirk playing across his full lips.

"No, man. We gave him something to help him sleep. Don't even worry about it." He whistled below his breath, a breathy high pitched sound. "So – what brings you back to the old stomping grounds?"

Rigby watched the interaction between the two men with naïve fascination, her mouth agape a centimeter or so as she coiled her toes against the metal foot of the chair anxiously. Wilson's thick brows furrowed as he rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. "I'm uh - well I'm actually looking for _House_," he admitted with a begrudging sigh.

Kutner grinned to himself, a hint of laughter warbling in his throat. "Nice," he chuckled. "I take it his persistence finally paid off?"

"Come again?" Wilson's shamed appearance morphed into that of puzzlement. Agitated, he straightened his neck tie with nimble fingers.

"All his bullying and tormenting," Kutner said. "I thought he was crazy. I mean to actually think you could buy back your friendship by slinging insults and threats – I don't know." He lifted his shoulders with a shrug.

"Oh no, no, _no_." Wilson shook his head adamantly. "No, you've got it all wrong." Licking the corner of his mouth he bared a small toothy grin. "This has nothing to do _with_ House. I just need to talk _to_ him," he corrected kindly as his hands brushed against his chin with thought. "About _him_ actually," he added as he unfurled his pointer finger towards the slumbering private investigator.

"You know Lucas?" Rigby's voice barely slit through the molecules of air surrounding her lips, her throat dry from hours of endless tears. Wilson shot the shivering girl an apologetic glance as he shook his head.

"Not really - _no_," he confessed. "But I _do_ know what's wrong with him."

---

"Are we crazy for doing this?" Cuddy's lungs seemed incapable of filling themselves as she gasped between the disassembled torrents of sheets. House grunted as he gnawed at her lips hungrily. The alcohol made it effortless, their normal tension from their day to day encounters practically exploding as they grappled with each other's bare forms.

"I've been called a lot worse," House breathed. Sweat was forming along his brow as he kept his injured leg out of sight. This wasn't their first time. He had nothing to hide. In fact, she'd seen the scars and holes more often than not. But this – this was too personal. The last time they'd been pressed together in such a way he'd made sure that no light could penetrate the tiny room.

As if sensing his thoughts, Cuddy piped up. "At least you turned a lamp on this time."

"Are we really talking about electrical fixtures?" Cuddy groaned, though whether it was from discouragement or pleasure House was unable to tell. However, the incision her fingernails were beginning to make along the small of his back pushed him to thinking that their trivial conversation was clearly not putting a damper on the festivities.

His pulse was pounding erratically - sheets of moisture building along each inch of epidermis as he drew his tongue against hers, their lips jumbling about with an intensity he had been unaware he even possessed. "Keep going," she urged with a persisting murmur. The simmering pops and honks of traffic passing by echoed from the cracked windowsill. House's eyes flickered towards the pile of their clothes strewn about, his cane still rocking on its side from the force of being flung heartily across the room. Cheeks flushed and ears ringing, he shook his head.

"_I'm sorry_," he muttered ruefully through tightened lips. Disappointment flooded his countenance as his grip upon her shoulders loosened. "I can't."

---

"All right then, so fess up." Kutner's arms were crossed against his chest. "What's so obvious that all of us _dumbasses _missed it?"

"I wasn't inferring that anyone was a dumbass," Wilson said nervously.

"Except for House," Rigby interjected. Kutner lifted his hands in the air, his palms towards the ceiling with his fingertips splayed.

"Oh I'm sorry, that's right. Dumbasses probably isn't the most politically correct term. What you meant to call us was a bunch of pathetic excuses for doctors. No, scratch that. We're just a bunch of pathetic excuses pretending to be doctors." Wilson, confused, glanced towards Rigby then back at the peeved physician.

"Where is this coming from?" he stammered as he gazed about the room, his nose scrunching as he did so. "Did I miss something?"

"Apparently, yes - the _point_." Rigby cradled her knees against her chest, still sitting atop the plastic chair as she watched the interaction between the two doctors turn suddenly sour. "I think he's upset because he thinks you assume that they aren't talented enough to miss something completely obvious – so you get to come in and save the day."

"Thank you, Rigby." Kutner nodded.

Wilson scoffed. "You're serious? You _can't_ be serious." His expression softened as Kutner's brows ruffled, his jaw visibly clenching with discomfort. "_Oh_," he exhaled with great force and astonishment. "You actually _are_ serious."

"We've been working on this case for days now," Kutner argued. "Don't you think if it was so easy to figure out that one of us could've pulled it out of our pea sized brains?" Rigby rose, eyelashes fluttering as she placed a hand upon his shoulder as if to pacify his swelling hostility.

Wilson shook his head fervently. "No, it's not like that. _Nothing_ like that in fact."

"Oh yeah? Then what is it?"

Wilson's lips moved in response but he moaned, tilting his head backwards as he pressed a fingertip to his temple – massaging it slowly. "I can't tell you." He sighed.

"Then what was the point of running down here and acting like a hero?"

"Yes, because the white stallion beneath my ass and this giant sword I'm carrying clearly states that I'm here to be a hero," Wilson drawled sarcastically. Rigby suddenly began to peer about wildly, her face alight. Wilson looked towards Kutner. "What's she doing?"

" – looking for the pony," Rigby replied in an almost monotone murmur. Kutner hung his head, his shoulders inching lower.

"And you were worried you were the one I thought had a pea sized brain," Wilson commented with a light grin.

"She's tired, give her a break."

"I haven't slept in over thirty hours," Rigby announced almost proudly with a telling yawn. Wilson's eyes suddenly gleamed with a sparkle of recognition.

"You're the one I talked to on the phone the other day – when I called House." Rigby nodded.

"Yeah. He get back to you?"

"No. Or else I wouldn't be here."

"I don't understand. What're you two fighting about anyway?" Wilson hesitated.

"It's not really a fight," he explained carefully. "I've just – _moved on_." Rigby yawned once more, her small fingers covering her mouth as she did so.

"He really misses you," she noted. Wilson grunted.

"Yeah," he quipped with sarcasm. "I'm sure he does."

"Last night he dreamt about you." Kutner burst into laughter, color flooding his face as he guffawed noisily.

"Did he _tell_ you that?" he inquired incredulously, barely able to form the words as they exited his lips. "Oh my god, that's great. House baring his soul over the breakfast table."

Rigby scowled, lightly pinching the flesh around the doctor's hipbone. Kutner squealed, thrashing about at the slight twinge of pain. "He didn't have to tell me," she clarified.

"Then what makes you even say that?" Wilson's eyes were wavering fiercely, though from what particular emotion he wasn't sure.

"He talks in his sleep," she said with an uncaring shrug – as though the answer should've been obvious to the both of them.

Kutner's jaw dropped. "_House_. _House_ talks in his sleep?"

"And how would _you_ know this?"

"Because he's sad and he's lonely and he lets me share his bed," Rigby retorted with narrowed hues. "Look, whatever happened between you two he's clearly a very unhappy person because of it."

"Actually, to Wilson's defense – House has _always_ been an unhappy person," Kutner chimed. "But that aside, let's get back to the part where you two are sharing a bed."

"You are _such_ a pervert," she snapped, pinching his flesh once more. He howled, hopping backwards as the tip of his tongue rested atop his lower lip while laughter pealed from the depths of his lungs.

"I'm just teasing you," he apologized with a grin. "So how's about you spend the night at my place tonight? I can do more than talk in my sleep," he offered with a playful waggle of the eyebrows. Rigby's fist flew against his abdomen and he coughed, doubling slightly with a casual nod of the head. "I deserved that."

"You know what? _Forget it_. Just tell House I stopped by," Wilson grumbled angrily.

"Just tell us already. What? You caught him investigating some drug dealers and they juiced him up on some of their stuff? Just because I'm not House doesn't mean I'm not Lucas' doctor too. If you know something, just say it."

"Fine," Wilson sighed with defeat. "I saw him," however he was cut short by a soft snort.

"Why would Lucas be hanging around a bunch of drug addicts?" Rigby questioned. "He doesn't use. I mean, he's almost petrified of needles." Wilson shrugged.

"I don't know what kind of people hire him. Maybe a couple of parents were worried that their kid was starting a meth lab in the basement. Who knows. I'm sure in his profession he's seen just about all walks of life."

"I don't _understand_," Rigby murmured softly, a hint of a dazed expression crossing her features as she lowered her chin in thought. Kutner quickly began to make a sharp ceasing motion along the width of his neck, his head shaking feverishly. Wilson seemed not to notice.

"I'm sure not all his cases are as tame and uninteresting as mine. I mean, it still boggles the mind that House would fork over a couple grand each week just to have him dig through my trash and maybe tap my phone line if he's feeling adventurous." Kutner's teeth were bared as he rocked on the balls of his feet, his arms flailing about behind the small girl as Wilson continued to stand in a state of oblivion.

" – but Lucas is a carpenter." Naivety rang true as she peered up towards the doctors through fluttering lashes, her small lips taut as she suddenly appeared more and more the child everyone seemed to think she was.

Wilson paused as the truth of the situation quickly dawned upon him and all air escaped from his chest in a striking blow until all he could muster was a plain and simple: "_Oh. _Crap."


	14. Lies and Keychains

14.

"You lied to me," Rigby screamed, bursting through the front door of House's apartment. "You _son of a bitch_, you lied to me!" Tiny squiggles of blue pulsated along the nape of her neck, veins throbbing with anger as she stormed along the threshold. "Get out here. I know you're home."

House appeared, a raggedy towel wrapped securely around his waist. "What the hell is going on?" A look of panic lit up along his countenance like a neon sign as another guest shuffled in behind the infuriated girl. "_Wilson_?"

Wilson's chin was tilted downwards, not meeting his ex-colleague's gaze as he cleared his throat. "Hey," he greeted softly. "Sorry about this."

"Don't apologize for him," Rigby snapped as she walked straight up to the limping doctor, slamming her palm against his cheekbone. "You're such an ass. Do you know that?"

House winced, eyes never leaving the oncologist as he grabbed Rigby by her bony wrists, holding her still. "I've been told so many times, yes. Keep your voice down." Rigby wriggled anxiously, flailing about in an attempt to free herself from his clutches but in the end it was no use.

"Why? You got some piece of ass waiting for you in bed or something? _Ow_." Her face contorted. "_You're hurting me_," she whimpered with a scowl of pain. House ignored her, head nodding towards the oncologist as his eyes narrowed into two perfect slits.

"What're you doing here?" Wilson held up his hands, shaking his head as he glanced towards the floor once again.

"I just provided the ride over. This is between the two of you," he said evasively. "Although, I do have to talk to you about something when she's done pummeling you into a weepy mess of guilt and shame."

"Guilt and shame," House pursed his lips, pretending to ponder as he tapped his chin lightly with the pad of his forefinger. "Nope," he deduced with a shrug. "Never heard of 'em."

"You lied to me."

"You don't say," House grunted. "I wouldn't have guessed – what with you saying it over and over like a broken record."

"You think this is funny?" Rigby shouted.

"Do you _see_ a smile on my face?"

"I thought we were friends," Rigby continued as Wilson took a seat atop the arc of the couch's armrest.

"And what could've possibly possessed you to come up with this insane conclusion?" House let her wrist slip from his grasp, tightening the towel around his hip bones. His scar poked beneath the tattered and stained edges, dark and somewhat hollow. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't know," Rigby said with a mocking gesticulation. "How about the fact that I listened to you bitch and moan about _this_ guy over here." Her arm swung backwards, pointing directly at Wilson who quickly averted his eyes. "I trusted you. I trusted Lucas with you. Hell, I shared a stupid bed with you."

"_House_?" The intensifying decibel of the noise had caught Cuddy's attention. Clad in only a sheet held up against her breasts, she inched her way tentatively into the room.

"Oh, God." Wilson quickly shielded his eyes with his hands, a red flush creeping along the length of his neck all the way up towards his forehead.

"We're not friends," House spat frostily, glaring at the oncologist with disdain. "You have no right to judge."

"You _slept_ with her?" Cuddy spoke with an audible disbelief, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the hem of the sheet. "You knew I didn't like her and then you slept with her – and then, what? It wasn't cruel enough to leave it there, you had to sleep with me too?"

"I knew you didn't like me," Rigby said triumphantly.

"I didn't _sleep_ with her. I _slept_ with her." House sighed. "This would be so much easier to explain with pants on."

"In other words, I didn't want to sleep on the couch and House wasn't man enough to give up the bed for a few days," Rigby explained.

"So no actual, well – _connecting_ took place then?" Cuddy questioned dubiously. Rigby snorted, her fingertips running along a strand of her hair as she smirked.

"As if. I'd rather sleep with Kutner."

"_Hey_," a voice interjected with indignation. Kutner sauntered through the door, still wearing his rumpled white lab coat. "Car's parked," he noted nonchalantly as he tossed a jingling set of keys towards Wilson who caught them effortlessly.

"_That's_ – that's pretty bad," Cuddy murmured, her brow lifting as he eyes widened slightly. "I should put some clothes on," she said promptly as though only suddenly aware of her nakedness.

"Way to go _House_," Kutner commended.

"I can't _believe_ you slept with Cuddy," Wilson exhaled.

"Get out of my apartment," House ordered bitterly. Wilson rose from his seated position, nearly tripping over the couch as he did so.

"You didn't answer my phone calls." House shrugged.

"Didn't have to. We're not friends. Or do you not remember dumping me like a football player with his cheerleader girlfriend that's put on five pounds – but not in the fun places like the ass and chest."

Wilson sighed. "I decided it was time to move on."

"And yet here you are."

"And as always, you assume it has something to do with you."

"Well, I _do_ live here," House muttered condescendingly. "But you're right. Clearly you're here for someone else. Maybe you found out Thirteen's dying. Figured you could whip up another short lived romance that ends with you sobbing over a coffin."

Wilson inhaled noisily, eyes shutting as he steadied himself. "You're mad. I get it, its fine."

Rigby stamped her foot atop the ground, nose scrunching as she folded her arms across her chest. "_I'm_ mad," she corrected.

"Oh _boo-hoo_," House griped. "Your best friend lied to you about _everything_. Get over it," he continued with a glare. "That's what people _do_. They _lie_."

"Not the good ones," Rigby argued in a girlish voice. "Not to the people you care about at least."

"No," House said as he shook his head. "Those are the ones you always lie to – _because_ you care."

"If you're done peddling your cynical outlook on life, maybe you could take a minute to hear your patient's diagnosis," Wilson interrupted determinedly.

"Fine," House groaned as he massaged his right temple. "Go." He paused. "And then get out."

"When I ignore you, you harass me endlessly and practically bully conversation out of me. But when I show up at your front doorstop, willing to talk – you kick me out?"

"It doesn't have to make sense to you."

"Yeah, well – as long as it makes sense to _you_," Wilson drawled with heady sarcasm.

"Do you have a diagnosis for me or not?"

"Put on some pants and I'll tell you."

---

"Thanks for letting me sleep here tonight," Rigby said as she ran her hands along the blankets that had been laid out for her, smoothing the wrinkles absently.

"Not a problem," Kutner assured as he continued to search within the depths of his linen closet for an extra pillow. Rigby crossed her legs, slouching as she cradled her chin against her palm with a delicate sigh.

"I still don't see why they wouldn't let me stay."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality," Kutner explained. His fingertips brushed against something soft and with a grin of success, he yanked the small cushion from behind a mess of washcloths and placemats. "Besides, who knows if Wilson really knows what's wrong. It's all pretty much theory at this point."

"He sure _seemed _like he knew."

"Yeah," Kutner's shoulders lifted upwards and then fell. "But if he doesn't and he's just speculating, there's no use getting you all worried about it anyway."

"I guess," she said unconvincingly.

"You know," Kutner began guardedly – handing the pillow over, "if you'd rather sleep somewhere more comfortable, you can always sleep in the bed with me." Rigby's mouth cracked into the tiniest of grins.

"You're funny," she teased as set the pillow down upon the ground. Face softening, she bit against the moist flesh of her lower lip. "Sorry for what I said earlier. About how I'd rather sleep with you than House."

"What're you talking about?" Kutner said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "There's no way I could've been offended by that. Besides, it's actually good news for me. Less competition." Rigby grinned once more, the tip of her tongue exposing itself as she shook her head.

"What happened there?" she inquired, her index finger unfurling as she motioned towards the doctor's exposed calve muscle. A series of miniscule scrapes had been stitched together, a little white strip of tape keeping them closed. Dried blood was caked along the edges of the cuts as though they were fresher than they appeared. "Did someone forget how to shave his legs properly?"

"_Yeah_," Kutner let out a nervous laugh, his gaze averting hers. "Something like that." He rubbed at his chin, swallowing apprehensively. "Well goodnight, then. If you change your mind you know where to find me."

"_You're funny_," Rigby said once more with an impish smirk as she tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Goodnight."

---

"If it was bulimia his fingertips would've given it away," House quarreled as he leaned against his cane. "There were no apparent signs of an eating disorder anywhere on his body. Besides, the ER did a psychological evaluation when he was first brought in and he passed with no questions asked."

"It's that keychain," Wilson corrected. "Look, when you sent him following me everywhere I started to recognize him. Not to mention he was in my grief support counseling group. It's that keychain – he's always got it on him."

"So you're saying, the keychain _magically_ lets him be bulimic without any of the tell tale signs," House said slowly with a discernable doubt.

Wilson sighed with defeat. "In a way, yes – I guess. But when you put it that way it sounds so - _so_ not medically relevant."

"Tell me more about this magical keychain, James. Does it lend powers of invisibility as well? Because that's something I've always been interested in having."

"Except you thrive on the attention you get that you bring to yourself. If you had to go invisible even one day you'd lose your whole will to live."

"You underestimate me."

"And you're throwing me off track. The _keychain_," he stated. "It's long, flat. Almost like a tongue depressor."

"So you're saying he uses that instead of his finger," House clarified, the notion dawning upon him as he squinted towards the distance. "It still wouldn't explain the fact that he's been vomiting bowel movements for the past two days."

Wilson shook his head emphatically. "It's not bowel. Look, I'd say it's safe to assume that he's probably not all that new at this."

"And if he's had the disorder for awhile," House continued.

"Then there's a good chance he's done some damage," Wilson ended.

"Scar tissue." House's face tightened with discontent, ashamed that the oncologist had gotten to the diagnosis first.

"The bulimia or something else has left his intestines scarred and for some reason the tissue is starting to slough away."

"So when he vomits, it's coming up with the bile – appearing to be bowel." House groaned aloud. "I should've seen that."

"Don't get too hard on yourself. This guy's job is to sneak around without getting caught. If you even assumed for a second that he wouldn't have his own life covered, then you'd just be kidding yourself."

"A _keychain_?" House's nose wrinkled. "And you're saying that you got all of this from a keychain."

"Well that and at the grief counseling they used to pass out a snack in the middle. You know how a lot of people like to eat their sorrow and everything," Wilson said as his brows furrowed. "It never struck me as weird that he would get up and leave for a few minutes after eating. In fact, after I figured out who he was – I just assumed he was calling you to relay what he'd heard. But then when Cuddy called and told me what was going on, it just seemed to click."

"So what you're telling me is that my spying on you actually helped."

"That's not even _remotely_ close to what I'm saying, House." Wilson shook his head in frustration. "It's creepy and it's pathetic and it's sad. But just because I can't make you grow up doesn't mean a patient has to go un-diagnosed because I failed to provide the information."

"So that's it then? You've told me what you know – now what?"

"Now it goes back."

"Back to what? Us a few _days_ ago or us a few _years_ ago?"

"_House_," Wilson muttered with a warning timbre. "It'll never be _back_ like that." House bristled, his eyes narrowing.

"Fine."

Wilson hesitated, holding the air inside his lungs for a few timid seconds. "For what it's worth, it was good to see you."

House sneered - silently praying that the crushing disappointment he was feeling didn't show. He glared - his voice raspy and quaking noticeably. "Just get out of my house."

"_House_ -," Wilson appealed gently. House shook his head.

"_Now_."

* * *

author's note: thank you all so much for the reviews. i just wanted to note here that i'm NOT having kutner being a cutter. the scrapes are from something else which you'll see later. something cute-ish. so sorry if that was misleading.


	15. Tires and Shoes

not my best chapter but i've been busy. however, i appreciate all the comments and will get the story back into the swing of things soon.

* * *

15.

"This has to be some sort of a joke," Lucas protested. Arms folding across his chest, he bent his knuckles with an affirming crack. "I'm not bulimic."

"It explains all your symptoms," Taub noted quietly as his fingertips fiddled with the strings of IV tubes and wires. "It's understandable, Lucas, that you'd be in denial. Most people who are suffering from eating disorders are ashamed of themselves. They often know what they're doing is wrong but just can't seem to stop."

"That's _fantastic_," Lucas retorted dryly. "And I'm assuming yours is the insight I'd most treasure. After all, you were a plastic surgeon – sucking the fat out of the small and bony just because they'd hand over a nice chunk of change."

Taub forced a tight, amiable smile. "You're upset. I get it."

"I'm not upset. I'm confused." Taking a moment to pause, Lucas unfurled his forearms, sliding his damp palms against the surface of his cotton blankets. "Believe me, I'm just as anxious and ready for a diagnosis at this point too – but I need the _right_ diagnosis," he stated firmly.

"We're convinced this _is_ the right diagnosis," Taub argued in an almost repentant fashion. "I'm sorry."

"Look – I take on tons of jobs that turn out to be jokes. Most of them are easy to follow, by the book, standard procedure. You follow the cheating husband to his motel with his mistress, take a couple of pictures and _whad'ya_ _know_ you've got your month's rent in your pocket and you're out the door. But sometimes – _sometimes_," he added with intent for emphasis, holding up a single finger. "You think you're seeing this _by the book, standard procedure_ event go down. You snap a few pictures, the evidence seems pretty convincing so you turn away and run off to snitch to the crying wife. But while you've gone and turned your back – you're missing the real thing."

"Such as?"

"This isn't some guy's mistress," Lucas continued. "No, in fact she's the lady he works with that just needs to get away from her abusive husband for the weekend. So our chivalrous gentleman here is just helping her get settled in so she can feel safe and protected – even if it's just for two nights."

"Your examples can only lead me to believe you have no faith in the institution of marriage," Taub observed as he retrieved a fresh bag of saline from inside the confines of the bedside table.

"Right. I should be more idealistic. I _know_," he retorted with a dull scoff. "Why don't I just take a cue for _your_ marriage. No doubts about my future happiness _that_ way."

"That was unnecessary." Taub bristled, yanking at his earlobe. "You know nothing valid of my personal life – only what you can dig up from my garbage and my bank accounts."

"Investigating is my job, yes. But I wouldn't be any good at it if I couldn't read the people I'm looking after."

"So you're saying that in our few brief encounters you've found the time to scan my inner soul?" Taub remarked snidely, fingertips running along the length of his head for a slight moment.

"Of course not. You're not listening to what I'm trying to say."

"Which is?" A nurse bustled through the room, a handful of fresh packets of gauze in her clutches. Saying nothing, she deposited the load of goods atop the surface of the counters and with a ducked head, disappeared.

"That a lot of the time, people don't realize the signals they're giving off. Why do you think psychics get so much business?"

Taub's brow creased incredulously. " – are you saying you're a _psychic _now?" he questioned with a slow halt. Lucas shook his head adamantly, a rosy hue flushing the wan apples of his cheekbones.

"Psychics aren't real."

Taub stared at the private investigator blankly, his chest deflating with a soft sigh. "You're losing me."

Lucas ran the tip of his tongue along the corners of his mouth, attempting to form an understandable version of the thoughts that were racing through his brain all at once. "Psychics – or the people who claim to be psychics – are just people like me. People who can look at a person and know what that look in their eye means. Most of the time a person doesn't even realize what they're doing with their body but everything that they _are_ doing is like an open book for someone who knows what they're looking for."

"For example?" Taub baited.

"For example. Say you went to one of these so called psychics. They sit you down and they take a mental picture of you. They look to see if you're wearing a wedding ring, if you've got bags under your eyes, if you're sweating – all kinds of things you might not even think about. They way a person sits can tell you a million things about them – if they're fidgeting or if they're completely rigid. And most of the time," Lucas continued, clearing his throat as a rattling cough leapt from his lungs towards his throat. "Most of the time – it's the people that end up providing all the information anyway. Sometimes the person I'm investigating ends up doing all the work for me just by opening their mouth. You just have to know what question to ask."

"So I'm unconsciously telling you all my secrets?" Taub appeared miffed, disbelieving of the notions floating from the private investigator's cracked lips.

"Not exactly. But little things – like your remark to me about my views on marriage. The tone of your voice implies that you _do_ in fact believe in the sanctity of marriage – which I'm sure you won't be surprised, but I find a little strange considering your background."

"I love my wife," Taub replied stiffly. "And we're working things out."

"Yes," Lucas noted. "But for someone who supposedly believes in the sanctity of the marriage to go and ruin that sanctity on more than a few occasions – that tells me everything."

"I beg your pardon."

"Once could be considered a mistake. But you didn't cheat just _once_. You had multiple affairs which meant you _knew_ what you were doing. You _knew_ you were breaking that sanctity which I truly do think you believe in."

"And that tells you everything?"

Lucas furled his fingertips. "It tells me you know how much love is in your relationship and yet you don't feel you deserve any of it. But that came before the cheating – the affairs just gave you a reason to feel the way that you already were. Now you have something tangible to pin it to – to carry the blame. You chose something that would haunt you forever rather than face what was unknown and reasonless."

Taub stared at him quietly for a moment, clutching the clipboard against his hipbone as he bit along the inside of his mouth. "Once we run a test on the scar tissue you've been vomiting up you'll be good to go. I'll have one of the nurses draw up your release papers," he muttered in monotone.

"So you're just going to ignore me then?"

"How about you focus on your own problems instead of everyone else's," Taub snapped with a frightening glare – his voice piercing the still beeps of the surrounding machines. "Maybe if you'd done that in the _first_ place you wouldn't be here wasting our time and ruining your own life."

" – but it's the _wrong_ diagnosis," Lucas responded submissively, arms pulling against himself in a protective manner as Taub's frustration palpitated throughout the air.

"Yeah, well. We'll see won't we."

---

"_You kicked him out_?" Cuddy shouted in amazement.

"Nothing had changed," House mumbled as he rested his chin against the curvature of his cane, a full bottle of beer – unopened, in his grasp.

Pulling at the edge of her scalp, Cuddy paced along the perimeter of the couch, shaking her head in disbelief all the while. "For the past few months I – _we_," she corrected as she spread her hands in a round motion. "Have all had to listen to you bitch and moan about how Wilson wouldn't talk to you. And then you have him here in your home – a chance to work things through and you _kick him out_?" Her voice raised on the last set of words, her throat straining.

"Who's _we_?" House glanced at her.

"The _world_," Cuddy spluttered with exasperation. "The universe, even. And in case you haven't noticed House, the universe is _pissed_."

"It wouldn't have made any difference," House said, eyes darkening as he fished a fistful of painkillers from between the couch's cushions, tossing them into his mouth with a firm swallow.

"You don't _know_ that," Cuddy said.

"I do know that, actually."

"No. You don't. Because you didn't even _try_."

"How old were those?" Cuddy remarked, turning the subject as though she had just noticed his familiar actions.

"How old were _what_?" House feigned naïveté.

"The pills, House." House's shoulders rose and fell.

"A year – two years, maybe? Might've been the tic-tac's the last hooker dropped during the at home donkey show last month. Might've been something from the donkey. Who knows."

"Honestly, you can be such a pig."

"And yet," House observed. "You still slept with me. And if I can remember math correctly – _that_ plus the _other_ time makes our total of naked encounters to equal _two_. Meaning either you actually liked it the first time or forgetting it happened, thought you were trying something new."

"Or it could be that it was so awful and traumatizing I blocked it from my memory all together," Cuddy mentioned with a hint of a smirk. "But I assume that since that option isn't one that feeds your ego, it never crossed your mind."

"I'm sorry," House said with a faux apologetic nature, eyes squinting. "I didn't quite catch that. My ears aren't tuned when it comes to the weaker sex. Everything just sounds like tires squealing."

"Like tires squealing?"

"For the better part of it, yes. Then it just becomes about shoes and I _really_ stop listening."

"How respectful," Cuddy noted dryly. "And what does your mother say about this?" she questioned, shaking her head - although unable to shed the glimmer of a grin forming along the lines of her mouth. House shrugged.

"Wouldn't know." He paused, impishly glancing at the ceiling as the tip of his tongue flickered along his lips. "Tires and shoes."

---

"It's definitely scar tissue," Foreman confirmed as he continued to peer through the eyepiece of the microscope. "Send him home. This case is closed."

"I'll get the nurses to put the discharge papers together," Thirteen offered as she removed her hands from the depths of her lab coat, blowing against them for a brief moment of heat.

"Already done," Taub interjected. "He's on his last bag of saline and then he's good to go – and not a moment too soon, I might add."

"Don't let him get under your skin. He means well."

"Yeah well, I'm _done_. Someone needs to go over his options for therapy with him but count me out." Taub frowned. "I'm going home."


	16. Flambe Sounds Fun

16.

"Your hunch was right. Or Wilson's – or whomever the hell it was that came up with it," Foreman concluded into the phone as he drummed his fingertips along the sterile glass countertop. "The test proved it was scar tissue. I'm writing up the discharge papers as we speak." He paused, shaking his head as he continued as if to himself, "All that runaround for _bulimia_. Never would've guessed it either. Not from him at least."

"Yeah, well he hid it a lot better than most," House muttered, the pads of his fingers scratching along the edges of his chin absently.

"Pretty amazing what people will do to themselves."

House hesitated, a wry smirk crossing his lips though he was more than aware his colleague could not see it. "And I suppose this is where I'm supposed to learn from Lucas' mistakes and realize how _similar_ we are by the choices we've made in our lives. Then when I'm done feeling sorry for myself I'll work _real_ hard on becoming a better person so I'm not weighted down by miles and miles of chains in my next life."

"That was _Scrooge_, House. _Although_," Foreman pursed his lips. "There are some striking similarities that are hard to ignore."

"Humbug." He paused. "Did you let him know you're releasing him?"

"Not yet, though I can't imagine he's not going to take it well."

"Why's that?"

"The guy's pretty far in denial. Left Taub all up in a tizzy after we told him why we needed the sample. I guess some people just don't like the idea of not being perfect."

House frowned, the lines along his forehead deepening as he straightened his back. "What exactly did he say to Taub?" Foreman shrugged as he rested the small phone against the bone of his shoulder blade, tilting his ear against the speaker.

"_I don't know_," he said slowly with a fair amount of confusion. "Ask Taub."

"Did he deny it?"

Foreman's eyes narrowed. "I _just_ said the guy's in denial. Are you listening at all?"

"But did you actually hear him deny it?"

"How is that relevant at all?" Foreman argued.

"I need to know if he told you or anyone else he was _not_ bulimic," House stated curtly. "I don't understand what's so difficult about what I'm asking."

"I didn't say it was difficult. I said I didn't see how it was pertinent to the diagnosis – which we've already agreed upon. Face it, House. The guy is messed up in the head. We've done everything we can for him. We cure diseases, we don't fix crazy."

"Wilson _lives_ to fix crazy," House countered.

"Yes, well we're not all Wilson unfortunately. Maybe if we were, then we all would've had the balls to stand up to you and walk away and none of us would have to be putting up with this same shit you keep pulling," Foreman remarked rather snidely as his eyes gave a slight roll. "Seriously, House. What're you getting at?"

House ignored the obvious jab. "Lucas is incapable of lying," he said. "I mean, he can tell a lie but believe me, you know when he is."

"So? What's your point?"

"My point is that if he said he isn't bulimic – then he isn't."

"House, the guy is a private investigator for a living. Lying is pretty much his occupation."

"Actually, he's very honest with his employers."

"He lied to that girl who's been hanging around here," Foreman pointed out. "Thirteen told me."

"Rigby isn't what you'd call a _scholar_," House admitted in a low tone. "Any normal human being, _especially_ one with four years of college and four years of medical school under their belt, would be able to tell if he wasn't telling the truth."

"_He's in denial_. He's convinced himself it isn't true," Foreman spluttered angrily, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "This was _your_ diagnosis, House! We did the test and you were right – and _now_ you change your mind just because the patient isn't happy with our answer?"

"Just give him another bag of saline and keep him for the night. If he starts throwing up the scar tissue again, I want you to do another test."

"For what?"

"Anything. Whatever it is we're missing."

"We're not missing anything. We're done. _Puzzle_ finished."

"The puzzle's never finished until it's actually finished."

"Which it is. It's _actually_ finished, House. As hard as it may be for you to comprehend the case is closed."

"Not quite. Give him another bag of saline and I'll see you in the morning."

"You can't jerk us around like this, House. It's not always your call."

"Get him some ice cream too. Chocolate, but not the popsicle kind. Make sure it's on a cone. Should _definitely_ cheer him up."

Foreman sighed against the phone, the speakers crackling with the heavy burst of air as he hung his head with defeat. "_Fine_," he murmured after a moment of irritated silence. "But, House?"

"Mm?" House's brow arched inquisitively.

"You _do_ know you're an asshole, right?"

"I prefer to think of myself as misunderstood."

Foreman nodded. "Of course you do."

"I'll see you tomorrow." Foreman shook his head.

"_Whatever_, House."

* * *

I realize once again that this isn't the greatest chapter and I do mean it when I say I'm going to get the story moving. I just need to knock out a few things first so hopefully it will stop sucking soon. Please keep reviewing though so that I know there's even a reason to continue!


	17. Are You Satisfied

17.

"So, you're _not_ releasing me then?" Lucas questioned with intense dubiousness, his brow curving heavily as his eyes narrowed into slits. "I thought you were so sure that I was doing all of this to myself."

"House clearly changed his mind," Kutner said with a stifled yawn, swiping the back of his hand against his eyes as they briefly shut. Lucas winced, shrinking back along the stiff hospital sheets, bringing them up along his shoulder blades.

"I'm really sorry he made you come out here in the middle of the night," Lucas muttered rather softly. "I don't know why he couldn't have just come himself."

"Because then he wouldn't be inconveniencing me," Kutner explained with a cynical grin. "Trust me, the more you get to know House the more you'll understand the crap he tends to pull. It's generally all just a power struggle, but sometimes he's just lazy," he said with a half hearted shrug as he situated his stethoscope around his clavicle.

"Still," Lucas continued. "I appreciate it. And for bringing Rigs," he said, gesturing towards the set of plastic chairs beside the bed, the small girl curled in a soundless sleep around their feet – practically snoring against the tiled floor.

"Yeah well tonight it was kind of a package deal. House finally pissed her off enough that staying at my place didn't seem so horrible after all."

"That can't be sanitary," Lucas mumbled absently. Kutner's face tightened.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, no. No, not what you think. I just meant the fact that she's pretty much slobbering all over one of the most germ covered surfaces on the planet," he said hastily as he jerked his thumb towards the dark-headed figure.

"She seems tough. I'm sure she'll survive," Kutner noted with a hint of amusement, tilting his head.

Lucas shook his head with a rueful appearance, his bloated fingertips rubbing at his scalp. The skin beneath his eyes was ashy and scaled. "You don't know Rigby, then. She's going to kill me when she finds out I let her just crash there."

"It's a lot cleaner than you think," Kutner interjected. Lucas' gaze suddenly tensed.

"Man, what happened to your leg?" Kutner glanced downwards, visibly befuddled by the sudden shift in conversation.

"I don't know what you're talking about?" he questioned, voice rising in tone as his hues scanned his limbs. Lucas' index finger unfurled, pointing as his features melded into concern.

"Your leg. It's bleeding," he said. "You can't feel it?"

"Oh," Kutner exhaled, unsure of what to say. He shifted uncomfortably, his weight settling from foot to foot. "Yeah, it'll be fine."

"You don't want to get a band-aid or something?"

"Nah, it'll stop soon. Seriously, it's just like a little knick."

"Really, I'd feel much better if you put something on it. That's a lot of blood for a _little knick_," Lucas said cautiously. He paused for a moment, a cold sweat devouring each inch of his body as a wave of nausea crashed on through his veins. "Hang on a second," he mumbled, holding up the same finger from only a moment ago. His insides leapt forth and what little sustenance had been left behind during all previous upheavals suddenly spat out from between his cracked lips onto the fabric of the sheets bunched at his lap.

"_I'm up_!" Rigby abruptly shouted, jumping dazedly to her feet as her eyes were still unopened – the sound of vomiting clearly having awoken her. She rocked unsteadily upon the soles of her sneakers, still somewhat caught in the land of dreams.

"I need someone in here, stat!" Kutner bellowed over his shoulder, one hand reaching out to assist the stumbling young girl from tripping over herself as the other motioned towards some of the approaching nurses to attend to the perspiring private investigator whose retching had at last begun to subside into short, dry heaves. "Rigby, c'mon."

"Is Lucas okay?" Rigby murmured, glancing behind her as Kutner guided towards the glass sheeted door, his arm around the small of her back as she continued to falter about.

"Yeah," Kutner assured. "He's great."

"I thought I heard him throwing up," Rigby countered in a girlish timbre, her lashes fluttering as she covered a large yawn with her hand. "But when I got up I couldn't see anything. Just lots of black dots. A few white ones. But mostly black."

"It's called a head rush. It's why that whole idea of _jumping out of bed to greet the day_ is just another bogus pile of crap some yuppies thought was a good idea."

"I _don't_ – I don't understand."

"It was just a bad dream," Kutner cooed, holding his hand comfortingly against her cheek. "Lucas is fine. He just wanted you to come and sleep out here. In a chair. Where it's _clean_."

Rigby continued to stare dully into the space in front of her, as though her mind was desperately trying to string something it couldn't quite understand together. " – I heard you call for a nurse?" she said almost hesitantly.

"They had to take a urine test. He's _fine_," he continued to lie, unwillingly and unable to purposefully upset the petite figure before him. Besides, if his employer could stray from the fact more often than not, then there was no reason saying he couldn't as well.

"All right," Rigby complied, easing herself into one of the many available chairs. "Your leg is bleeding."

"So I've been told."

"Aren't you going to do anything about it?" Rigby's nose scrunched as she once again yawned, pushing a stray strand of dyed hair away from her eyes.

"It'll stop on its own."

"Why's it bleeding?" A hoard of nurses rushed past in a dizzying mixture of conversation dulled by too many combinations of perfume.

"I dunno'," he said shrugging. "Must've scratched it without thinking."

"I think it's really sweet you do that," Rigby noted in a soft tone, bringing her calves up against her chest as she wrapped her arms around her knees. Kutner stared.

"I'm not sure I understand," he hesitated. "Do what?"

"Go eat lunch with that lonely old woman. That's where you got the scratches from, right?"

"Yeah," Kutner stuttered, dazed. "But how did you know? I don't tell people that."

"You left the picture she gave you on your cabinet," Rigby admitted sheepishly. "You were in the bathroom for awhile and I couldn't sleep and was bored and looking around. I saw the photo of her and her cat and the note she wrote on the back about enjoying your little afternoon dates."

Inhaling, Kutner choked. He shook his head back and forth furiously, his tan cheeks turning a brilliant scarlet hue. "There's no dating. No dates. _Not_ a date," he continued to repeat as though the point couldn't be made strongly enough. "She's just some batty old broad who lives in my building that I felt bad for. No one ever talks to her because they think she's just another crazy cat lady. So I started taking her lunch whenever I was free." He paused, his eyes darkening for a brief moment. "I know how much it can suck to be alone."

"So what's with all the mystery then?" Kutner sighed.

"I don't tell people because then it looks like I'm trying to pitch myself as the super Samaritan. I'd rather just do a nice thing without anyone knowing because then I'm actually doing it to be nice – not to have people tell me how great it is of me to do. You know?"

Rigby bit her lower lip, her fingers fiddling against one another as she nodded. "Yeah I can see that. Makes sense."

Kutner sighed once more, though this time out of relief. "Good. Now will you _try_ and get some sleep?"

"What if something happens to Lucas?"

"I'll come and get you right away. I _promise_," he assured earnestly, his gaze meeting hers. Rigby puckered her lips, squinting with visible reservation.

"Promise-promise?" she questioned, her tone both childish and tired. Kutner grinned.

"Yeah," he said with a nod. "_Promise-promise_."

---

_Beep_. "House, we need to talk." House stood over the answering machine with a strange sort of grimace across his countenance. "I know you're there, House." Cuddy's voice continued to ring throughout the apartment. "What happened tonight – it shouldn't have. _God,_ _and I can't believe that everyone saw us_." House could just picture her, home, pressed up against her pillows as she held her head in her hands, ruefully mourning her actions. "Look, if you could just pick up the phone so we could talk."

"About what?" House snapped, snatching the electronic device from it's cradle as he held it against his ear.

"Are we really going to do this?"

"Do what?"

"_Ignore it_?" Cuddy asked, tension resounding in her voice.

"Considering the fact that you left your bra here, I'd say it's pretty much un-ignorable at this point."

"Oh, _god_." Cuddy bemoaned. "I was in such a rush."

"I'm not complaining. It's better than finding your support hose in my bed," he said derisively.

"You know what? _Forget it_. You're tired. _I'm_ tired. We both need sleep," Cuddy interrupted curtly. "We don't have to talk about this tonight."

"Or _maybe_ – now here's a swell idea - _ever_," House supplied. "It's sex. We've done it before. We'll do it again." Cuddy scoffed. "Just go to bed and stop thinking so much. You shouldn't waste your time worrying over this when you _should_ be wasting your time worrying over how you're going to tell Lucas you slept with another man."

"We aren't dating," Cuddy said tensely. "It doesn't matter."

"So when he asked for Rigby the other day and you got all huffy – that wasn't because you two have something going on?" House countered.

"I didn't get huffy," Cuddy defended. "I had work to do. If he wanted to see his friend, it's perfectly understandable. He's known her a lot longer than he's known me."

"And _yet_," House mused. "_Huffy_."

"I'm hanging up now, House."

"Just think about what I said," he said. "Whether you think you two weren't dating or were dating or whatever you guys were – _are_," he corrected. "You _should_ tell him."

"Why can't you?"

"I wasn't the one who he had a chance of sleeping with further down the road," House's tongue snapped against the roof of his mouth. "It's the right thing to do."

"Of all the times for you to grow a conscience," Cuddy griped. "_Fine_," she sighed. "I'll talk to him tomorrow. Satisfied?"

"_After what we did tonight_?" House smirked. "_Very_ satisfied."

* * *

Thoughts? Is there anything anybody would like to see happen?


	18. Dumb and Dumbest

18.

"You want to cut into his stomach?" Rigby studied House, her hues steady as she rested her chin against her knuckles. After a moment's consideration, she gave her head a small shake. "_No_," she said decisively. "Absolutely not. That's too risky."

House sighed. "Look, whatever the problem is – it isn't getting any better. You do want him to get better, don't you?"

Rigby's lips curled into a delicate frown. "Don't try and guilt me, limpy. I'm trying to do the right thing here."

"That would be fine. Except you're doing the _wrong_ thing," House snapped brutishly.

"_House_," Taub muttered in a warning timbre. House's tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in silent contemplation. "She doesn't have to make any decisions right now. At least let her think about it."

"Ignore the Jew," House scathed bitterly, his fingertips scratching at the patches of stubble lining the edge of his chin. "His people are bred to lie."

"That's completely inappropriate," Rigby interrupted.

"And horribly insensitive," Taub added. "_But_," he continued dryly as he turned towards the petite girl. "Unfortunately, that's House."

"I just don't understand. You were about to release him and now you're rushing to slice him open. What happened to your other diagnosis?"

"_Clearly_, it was wrong or else we wouldn't be here – now would we," House grunted begrudgingly. "You can blame Wilson for that, by the way."

"Aren't there any other tests?"

"There are," House said. "But you see it's a _little_ hard to shove a tube down someone's throat when their body keeps trying to throw it up."

"So cutting him open is the logical next step," Rigby muttered sarcastically, arms crossing her chest as she fiddled with the cotton hood of her sweatshirt.

"The problem is in his digestive track somewhere," Taub explained, positioning himself in front of House as if to cut him off. "The sooner we can see what we're dealing with, the sooner he's home and healthy."

House snorted. "Said the hypocrite."

Taub glared, his brow furrowing crookedly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know exactly what I mean," House said curtly. "I talked to Foreman. Just yesterday you were practically dying to kick the patient out of the hospital and now you're standing here trying to act like you're his only saving grace."

Rigby's eyes widened slowly, her lips parting as she shot the plastic surgeon a cautious glance. "You were going to kick him out?" Her chest moved slowly with each breath as her pupils danced about in wild thought. "But - but he's _sick_," she protested quietly as though trying desperately to understand.

Taub licked his lower lip nervously, throwing a dagger like gaze towards House as he shifted his weight between his feet. "We thought it was an issue of mental health," he tried to clarify, fumbling on the consonants. "And we didn't feel there was anything more we could do to help him."

"Mental health."

"Yes," Taub concurred.

"You thought that my friend spent the past few days puking his guts up because of an _issue of mental health_," Rigby repeated Taub's words carefully.

"That is correct." Taub's voice had started to quiver slightly as Rigby's features contorted into that of stifled fury.

"That has to be the most ridiculous bullshit I've ever heard," she shouted, her arms uncrossing as they flailed about in the air. "Who in their right mind would put themselves in that kind of situation if they weren't honestly and truly _sick_?"

"House? A little help?" Taub murmured from the corner of his mouth.

House grinned wryly. "No thanks, I'm good."

Taub heaved a heavy sigh. "Of course you are," he mumbled beneath his breath. "You wouldn't be _House_ if you weren't a complete _ass_."

"So tell me, geniuses. What exactly led you to believe it was time to turn my best friend over to the white coats?" Her hues shifted towards House. "Were you too busy screwing Lisa to come up with an actual diagnosis? By the way," she persisted. "I can't believe you two would do that to Lucas. He really liked her, you know."

"_I know_," House said softly, almost ruefully at that. The truth was, he had known. It just hadn't mattered to him. He'd wanted her too – _more_, if even. "I'm sorry," he lied.

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to the guy you're going to knife up like a birthday cake."

"Rigby, it's understandable that you're upset. We get it. We made a mistake," Taub interrupted hastily. "It's just that all of Lucas' symptoms pointed to a prolonged eating disorder."

Rigby halted, her countenance tightening. " – _eating disorder_?" A strange grin crossed her lips as she shook her head back and forth, glancing at her fingernails. "Oh, this just amazing. _Are you fucking insane_," she shouted at once, her foot stamping upon the ground. "Where the hell did you get a stupid idea like that?"

"Wilson used to see him rushing off to the bathroom after eating at their grief support group."

"That's because he's paranoid about having food stuck in his teeth," Rigby snarled, seemingly less and less innocent by the second. "Did you even ask him about that?"

"Of course but most patients with mental health issues are in denial," Taub protested. "As doctors it's our job to determine whether or not to take the patient's word or come to our own conclusion."

"That's funny," Rigby said sarcastically. "You thought _Lucas_ was the one with the eating disorder." A slight scoff rolled about in her lungs. All traces of her former childish naïveté had vanished. "_God_, you guys are dumb."

"Wait, so _you_ - ?" Taub pointed towards her frame, his tone climbing as his words trailed off.

"No you _idiot_. Jesus, it's like talking to a brain damage victim."

"Some people have said the same about you," House cut in.

"I say stupid things sometimes but I'm not a stupid person," Rigby defended tersely, a small spark of her girlishness returning for a brief second as a resounding aura of sadness filled her eyes. House snorted.

"Of _course_ you aren't," he mocked deprecatingly.

"_Who were you talking about_?" Taub's frustration had clearly amounted to its limit.

"_Forget it_," Rigby sighed as she waved her hand dismissively. "Honestly, if it's none of _my_ business then it's _none_ of yours. I shouldn't have even said anything. Please, just forget it. All right?" House peered at her, clearly intrigued by her statement. Lifting his cane an inch or so off the ground he raised his chin.

"There's another test," he said suddenly.

"_Excuse me_?" Both Rigby and Taub uttered in unison.

"Lucas. There's another test," House reiterated though almost as if to himself.

"_Great_," Rigby said, visibly baffled by the abrupt shift in conversation. However, she seemed quite relieved that the private investigator would not have to go under the knife after all. "Do it then."

"Meet me in X-Ray in ten minutes." Hobbling towards his office's door, House disappeared into the hall almost immediately. The room went silent. The only sound was that of the muffled bevy of conversations leaking from behind the other side of the glass as people walked past in tiny swarms – nurses, patients, doctors, and visitors alike.

"_So_." Taub cleared his throat loudly. "You want to tell me who it is?" Rigby squeezed the plastic surgeon's shoulder with a faux grin of sugary sweetness. Her eyes squinted as she removed her hand with a final small pat against the small of his back.

"Keep dreaming, buddy. _Ain't gonna' happen_."


	19. Breakfast of Champions

19.

"This here," House shouted over the droning array of machinery and footsteps as the small team of doctors shuffled through the doorway. "Is an X-Ray machine."

"Yes, it is." Kutner bobbed his head up and down confoundedly, exchanging a series of questioning glances with those around him. "That's why it's in the X-Ray room."

House elongated a single finger, holding it in the air before him. "Which is where we _currently_ are."

"Are you _high_ right now?" Thirteen gaped, her forehead growing more and more creased by the minute as her lips parted asymmetrically. Foreman stepped forward, hands in his pockets as he strode with a certain appearance of poise.

Splaying his palm before the crippled diagnostician, he tilted his chin to the side. "House. _Your Vicodin_."

"What about it?"

"Hand it over. You've clearly had too much." House's muted blue hues rolled about behind his lashes, pushing his cane before him as his gaze flickered upwards.

"Just put our pukey private investigator on the table," he muttered as both Kutner and Foreman slid their arms beneath Lucas' ribcage, hoisting his frame atop the cool plastic surface that stood in the center of the room.

"What're you trying to prove?" Kutner winced briefly, the pads of his fingertips massaging at his shoulder blade. "Dude's heavier than he looks."

"The patient's spent the past few days vomiting up everything in his system. If anything he should be underweight," Thirteen observed.

"Yes well your co-worker clearly missed his morning bowl of Wheaties – the breakfast of champions," House grunted as Kutner's countenance grew alight with a dim flush, a discernible humiliation cascading over each of his features.

"He had a point though," Foreman interjected. "What _are_ you trying to prove?"

House's lips curled. "Something really, _really_ cool."

* * *

I am aware that this chapter is just insanely short. But it's for a reason. Here's the deal. I figured once the diagnosis is done the story will be over. However I'm really enjoying writing what I've got set up and I was wondering if I started a sequelish story, focused more on Wilson returning and his relationship with Cuddy and some more stuff with Lucas and the team - would anyone be interested in reading it? I think Lucas was such a great addition to the show and I wish they'd kept him around for more. I also wish they'd do more with Kutner hence why I enjoy writing parts for him. I don't know. Any feedback would be nice. Please let me know what your thoughts are. Thank you!


	20. Again with the Aliens

AN, i'm so, _so_ sorry for re-uploading. i had this problem with another chapter before. i'm not sure if it's my computer or what but when i click to the chapter it cuts it off in the middle even after re-freshing the page a few times. i'm not sure why. so i decided to try re-uploading to see if that would help. please don't hold that against me. there will be a new chapter soon.

* * *

20.

"Is that what I _think_ it is?" Kutner's voice trailed off into the distance as the team of doctors surrounded the small board emanating a brilliant white light. Atop its surface was a sheer scan, a map of the private investigator's organs from the inside out.

"I've never seen anything like it," Taub murmured in response as his head slanted leftwards, his exhausted hues scrutinizing each centimeter of the image before him. "I'm not even sure I'm looking at what I _think_ I'm looking at."

"Oh, but you are." House side stepped the cluttered group of medical professionals, his hand absently hovering over Thirteen's breasts as he rested his palm against her freckled epidermis.

"_Excuse me_," Thirteen snapped, brushing the limping doctor's grasp from her chest – her eyes exchanging an almost guilty glance with Foreman before both quickly turned their attention to the tiles below their feet.

"Sorry," House lied contemptuously. "You had them all laid out. I thought it would be rude _not_ to touch."

"_You're an ass_," Thirteen hissed, rushing to cover herself with the ends of her lab coat as the corners of her cheekbones darkened with humiliation.

"And you and just made it obvious to everyone in the room that you're currently taking a hiatus from women and just hopping into bed with the next best thing – Foreman."

"I didn't say anything about that," Thirteen protested hastily, her eyes once more shifting towards Foreman's before directing away.

"Not in so many words, no. But it's there. We all heard it," House muttered with a blithe nod of his chin, the tip of his tongue running itself against the jagged edges of his front teeth.

"Can we please get back to why the patient's x-ray looks like he's harboring a _mutant_ in his stomach?" Kutner interjected, a stern wince forming along the contours of his lips.

"_Alien_," House corrected matter-of-factly.

"An alien," Taub repeated warily with a brutal sigh. "As in an _extraterrestrial being_?"

"In a manner of speaking," House cajoled as his nose the skin beneath his nostrils creased.

"What possible manner of speaking involves ET lodged up in Lucas' guts?" Kutner spluttered as he took a step closer towards the glowing image.

"As in the fact that what we're looking at is foreign. Although," House deliberated as his teeth tore at the flesh upon his lips. "It would be _such_ a better story to tell all my friends if it was _actually_ alien impregnation."

"Don't be stupid," Kutner responded with a macabre grin. "You don't have any friends. And anyone else who would even remotely listen to that story is here in this room so that sort of removes any suspense you could've pulled out of your ass."

"At least I don't make myself throw up just to get my jollies," House retorted with an icy snarl, his gaze remaining securely upon the now slack jawed doctor – watching as each muscle in his legs seemed to begin quivering all together at once.

"_You're_ who Rigby was talking about?" Taub stared, disbelievingly.

"_What_?" Kutner let out a diminutive and uncomfortable laugh, waving his fingertips awkwardly. "_No_," he denied uselessly. "Definitely not."

"How can you say _no_ if you don't even know what she was talking about?" Taub investigated with suspicion. "You weren't in the room."

"Probably washing his face with toilet water after a quick bite in the cafeteria," House said. Kutner swallowed. Any hint of color that had existed upon his features, quickly evaporated. Tension rallied along the lines of his forehead as his lashes crumpled against the lids of his eyes.

"It's not like that," he muttered with a zealous shake of his head, eyes flying open to reveal rather dilated pupils.

"That didn't take long," House seemed stunned. Frustration coursing throughout his veins, Kutner slid his palm against the side of his face.

"No, I mean you're _wrong_."

"House, leave him alone." Foreman stepped in front of the disabled doctor, his hand crossing at his chest.

"Not just _yet_," House sustained.

"_Maybe_ we should just focus on the patient for now," Thirteen said tentatively.

"_Please_," Kutner beseeched in a half hearted hum. His hands were wringing against one another feverishly, though he seemed quite unaware of the fact.

"Fine," House exhaled vociferously. "Where were we before _Chucks A'Lot_ over there distracted me?" Without warning, Kutner turned and bolted from the room – pale faced with his chin pressed against his chest, head down.

"You didn't have to be so cruel," Taub chastised. House flashed a boyish grin.

"Then I just wouldn't be me, _would_ I? And let's face it. I gotta' be me."

"That was really mean," Thirteen quipped suddenly. "I mean, if what you're saying is actually true then he's got a _real _problem. And not exactly one you should be bringing up in front of everyone when he _clearly_ didn't want anyone knowing."

"Not only did I save him the trouble of spending endless waking nights of trying to figure out a way to tell you, I also spared all of _you_ the long heartfelt tear fests that would no doubt ensue and distract you from your _job_," he emphasized the last word, his cane slamming against the image of the private investigator's insides that still loomed upon the side of the wall. "Which none of you seem to be doing at the moment."

---

"I know that look." Kutner sat alone at a small table in the cafeteria when a somewhat quiet voice punctured the surrounding air. Knuckles coiled in a fist and pressed against his mouth, he raised his chin for a succinct instant.

"_Yeah_?" he grunted as Wilson slid into the rickety wooden chair opposite his own. The feet wobbled to and fro for a moment before settling into a semi-balanced lag.

"Yeah," Wilson said with a wry smile. "You've _pretty_ much got House's calling card written all across your face."

"That obvious, huh?"

"It's his gift." Wilson's countenance had an almost woebegone amusement skulking throughout each and every inch of muscle and skin.

"Some gift," Kutner groused miserably, flattening the top of his short mane as a miniscule clump of hair came out between his fingertips.

"Yes, well while to _him_ it's a gift. To the rest of us it's just a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, I guess." Kutner nodded dejectedly. Realization manifested throughout his wavering hues as he shot the oncologist a bewildered glance. "_You don't work here anymore_," he stated as though the fact was obvious.

"So?"

"So what are you doing just hanging around in the cafeteria? I mean, not that I don't appreciate the pep talk but still – _dude_," Kutner faltered. "You've got to have something better do to. Invest in a Nintendo or something."

"Actually, I was just here for a meeting with Cuddy," Wilson explained as he folded his hands against one another. Kutner's brow arched inquisitively.

"Don't tell me you're hitting that now _too_," he teased unenthusiastically.

"Not quite," Wilson's lips winded into a half grin. "I thought I'd start it off easy. Get my job back first."

"You're gonna' come _back_?" Kutner appeared astonished. "After _all _the crap House has put you through?"

"I'm not coming back for him. I miss the job," Wilson said as he absently straightened the knot of his necktie. "I miss my patients."

Kutner's nostrils let out a shrill snort. "_House_ certainly won't see it that way."

"House is House. He'll never see it the way it's supposed to be and that's party what makes him such a great doctor. You show him a photograph of an infant and a lollipop – where everyone else sees a precious childhood memory captured on film – _House_ sees the beginning stages of whatever disease is there lingering beneath the surface."

"Such a positive outlook."

"He's an _intolerable_ ass, yes. _But_ he saves a lot of lives," Wilson concluded quietly. "When everyone else can't see past the puzzle he can show up out of nowhere and fit all the pieces together without so much as flinching."

"You were wrong about Lucas, you know."

"So I've heard. Any diagnosis yet?" Kutner's shoulders rose and fell.

"_Dunno_'. I walked out before we got anything past alien impregnation and harboring a mutant fugitive from the esophagus on."

"That's _different_," Wilson paused as though searching for the right term.

"Yeah well, like you said – that's _House_. Although, he seemed to know what it was. Just wasn't telling."

"He's testing you. He needs to see that you guys can come up with the answer on your own. _Probably_ good news for Lucas, though. He wouldn't do it if it was something fatal," Wilson justified. "Look, just go back and ignore him. If anything, just do it to get it done. Soon he'll find someone else to badger and it'll be just like he never said anything."

Kutner's features drooped as he nodded towards the oncologist, pushing his chair outwards as he stepped around the tiny table and straightened his spine. "_Right_," he said miserably, "_just like he never said anything_."


	21. Answers Are Hard to Find

21.

"What do you mean he _won't_ tell you?" Rigby screeched, veins throbbing along the side of her frail neck as she crossed her arms against her chest and glared at the two doctors before her. "You're saying Limpy _has_ the answer."

"_Yes_," both Taub and Kutner said in unison, flinching slightly at the sudden piercing sound that reverberated throughout the marbled halls.

"But he won't say what it is," Rigby continued through a set of gnashed ivory teeth, clearly seething where she stood.

"_Yes_," the doctors repeated with hesitance, a bit guiltily. Rigby whistled in a low timbre, slicking her dark mane back as she shook her head in soundless incredulity.

"So, what?" she stammered as she glanced over her shoulder towards the glass walls of the private investigator's room. "You guys are just going to stand by and let Lucas feel like complete and utter _crap_ until House caves in and spills?"

"I assume he's confident we can come to the diagnosis on our own," Taub supplied tentatively. "He just wants to give us the time to get there."

"Right," Rigby said with a slight nod of her head, cynicism resounding on each syllable she spoke. "But while _you're_ taking the time you need to eliminate every last possibility off of that damn whiteboard, my best friend is twisted in the fetal position praying that someone holds a pillow over his face."

"What else are we supposed to do?" Rigby exhaled noisily.

"Just figure it out. Please."

* * *

the end is coming. i promise. i just didn't want to rush it too quickly. i hate when that happens in stories. please keep reviewing and reading. there will be more soon and hopefully it'll be worth the wait.


	22. Judgement

22.

The sound of strained retching ricocheted from stall to stall throughout the tiny fourth floor men's bathroom. Several sets of footsteps plodded atop the freshly mopped tile in an uneven rhythm.

"I'm _fine _you guys," Kutner asserted insistently, his voice hoarse. Both of his elbows were unsteady and wobbling, propped along the porcelain seat of the toilet before him. The white cotton fabric of his coat lay sprawled out around his lower half, both knees pressed against the floor below. "You should be figuring out _Lucas'_ deal. _Not _mine."

"We had some _theories_," Taub interjected hesitantly, his gaze lifting towards the ceiling as he scratched the side of his face idly. "We just wanted to run them past you."

"_Right_," Kutner drawled wryly, twin sets of glassy hues rolling in synch as he reached towards his left, pushing his fingertips against the small metal knob connected at the toilet's side. A loud flush rang out, the shrill melody of water throbbing through pipes commencing. "Which is why you couldn't wait five minutes for me to come out _there_." Stiffly he began to rise, wincing with each robotic movement. "Look, I get it. I _do_," he muttered. "_But_ I don't need you guys checking up on me."

"I'm _sorry_," Thirteen interrupted, her palm waving statically across the air. "I just don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"How you can _do_ this to yourself. I mean, you're a _doctor_ for Christ's sakes. You're supposed to take care of people and it's frighteningly obvious you can't even take care of yourself," she continued as both arms crossed against her chest, her brow plunging into a thick furrow.

"Because _you're _such a goody two shoes," Kutner snapped in retaliation, whipping around as he met the stubborn doctor's eyes at once. "Before you hopped in bed with Foreman, I seem to remember a certain someone who not only slept with just about anyone but _also_ didn't seem to care that she was living on an assorted cocktail of illegal and highly _dangerous_ drugs at the time."

"That was different," Thirteen bristled harshly, her gaze turning cold.

"Why? Because you're _dying_?" Kutner smashed his hands within the confines of his lab coat's pockets as he glared irately. "I'm not sure if you knew this – but we're all pretty much _born_ dying. And just because you know your expiration date doesn't give you some sort of authority to fuck up what little of your life is left and then look down upon others who do the same. I might not know when _I'm_ going," he murmured unsympathetically, "but at least _I'm_ not an asshole about it."

Taub cleared his throat nervously. "Can we please get back to the patient?"

"Why?" Kutner snarled. "The whole point of your little field trip in here was to see the _sideshow_ act for yourself, wasn't it?" he accused, gesturing at himself with a pained look of rage upon his countenance. "You weren't sure House was right or not so you had to come see it for yourselves."

"Kutner, you're _completely_ freaking out," Thirteen quarreled bitterly, tucking a strand of her brunette mane behind her delicate earlobe. "Look, House loves playing mind games as much as he loves making us miserable but let's forget him for a minute and try to figure out what the hell is going on with the patient."

"_Who the hell knows_," Kutner griped with exasperation as miniature beads of sweat protruded from his epidermis, collecting in little pools upon his flushed skin. "It would help if House wasn't such a stubborn ass and just tell us, already."

"Well clearly he thinks we're capable of figuring it out for ourselves," Taub noted with a quizzical glance, a hint of pride illuminating from his pupils. "That might help us narrow it down."

"_All right_," Thirteen said with a nod, her own fragile hands slipping into the pockets of her lab coat – mirroring Kutner's awkward stance. "So it's probably something we're either seen before or something that's cut and dry – something textbook we _should_ be able to determine."

"Plus, Wilson said it _probably _wouldn't be fatal," Kutner offered quietly. "Otherwise House wouldn't be wasting time playing these games." Both Taub and Thirteen's eyes drifted towards him curiously.

"When did you see Wilson?" Thirteen questioned, her freckled nose scrunching. Kutner shrugged.

"He stopped by to have lunch with Cuddy or something to get his job back. I ran into him in the cafeteria like an hour ago." He paled, all color diminishing in an instant as he suddenly flung his neck over the sink, vomiting at once.

"Why the _hell _are you guys in here?" Rigby scuttled through the bathroom's door as both Taub and Thirteen watched their colleague in soundless horror.

"You're still puking," Taub pointed out tentatively after a moment of silence as Kutner reached for a wad of paper towels from the nearby dispenser – bunching them together as he pressed them against his ashen lips.

"_Noted_," Kutner responded dully, mouth rounding as he spit a concoction of bile and saliva into the sink's basin. Thirteen cringed visibly.

"- that doesn't make _any _sense," Taub faltered as his thick brows arched, fingers threading themselves around his stethoscope.

"_Ipecac_," Kutner and Rigby replied in faint unison as the tiny girl swept up behind the still hunched doctor – taking the dirtied clump of paper towels from his hands and wetting them in the sink below.

"I'm _so _sorry," Rigby apologized at once as she slid the damp fistful of cloths against the ailing doctor's chin, mopping up all remaining hints of regurgitated food. "I never should've said anything. I don't think sometimes, you know? I should've just kept my stupid mouth shut."

"It's fine," Kutner dismissed as he allowed her to clean his features, eyes closing momentarily as he found solace in her consoling mannerisms.

"_Fine_?" Thirteen scoffed suddenly, a look of disgust upon her face. "Do you even see yourself right now? We're supposed to be diagnosing a patient and you're sitting here throwing your life away in the men's bathroom of some dinky little hospital," she chided in a rather cruel tone. Kutner opened his mouth to retaliate, however she cut him off with an immediate slash of her arm through the air. "No, wait," she demanded with an aura of haughtiness. "Don't sit there and tell me I have no right to be questioning your choices just because I make bad ones. If anybody in this room is allowed to say _anything_ – it should be _me_. Because I've been there – at the bottom. I mean, the _very_bottom. And no offense to the rest of you," she nodded at both Rigby and Taub. "I truly doubt either of you can say the same."

"I tried to _kill myself _during medical school," Taub countered as his eyes narrowed, appearing to be slightly offended by her allegations.

"And I've done _porn _just to pay the rent," Rigby murmured delicately. "But that doesn't give any of us the right to tell any of us what we're doing or what we've done is wrong."

"I _thought_you looked familiar," Taub snapped both fingers together, waving them at the diminutive girl. Rigby flashed a grim smile.

"Yeah well, everyone's got their demons."

"You can say that again," Kutner muttered.

"So if we see someone we care about screwing up their lives – we have to just shut up and sit on the sidelines and wait until they figure it out themselves?" Thirteen argued brusquely. "And you're right Taub," she admitted with quiet reluctance. "She _did_ look familiar."

"_Two _fans," Rigby marveled satirically. "Who would've guessed."

"That's it," Kutner said abruptly.

"What's it?" Taub questioned, glancing over towards his colleague with intrigue.

"_Sitting on the sidelines_," Kutner repeated Thirteen's words with an elongated breath, eyes widening as realization dawned upon him. "Ménétrier's disease."

"It _does_ fit," Thirteen conceded, gnawing upon her bottom lip.

"That's why we got confused. Imagine that his stomach's the baseball field. We took one look at those X-Rays and thought we had one of the other team's players out there with us when it reality it's just our team out there – playing really, _really_ aggressively. And that's what is stomach thought too."

"But the other team was still sitting on the _sidelines_," Taub mused in correspondence with the theoretical example.

"I don't understand," Rigby interrupted in a sweet tone, looking about with curiosity shining her pale hues.

"Basically Lucas' stomach thinks it's being attacked. Everyone has these folds and they're only supposed to get so big. They release this mucous with protein and it's all really confusing and complicated but the _short_ version of it is that now that his folds are so much larger they're releasing way more than they should be. Pretty much like self injected poison on a daily basis."

"So what – you give him something to make the swelling go down and he'll be all right?" Rigby cautioned, head tilting towards the side quizzically.

"Based on Lucas' X-Rays, he'll have to have part of his stomach surgically removed but after that if we put him on a protein rich diet he should be back to basically his normal self in no time," Taub explained, hands folding against one another as Kutner reached his own hand out towards the smaller girl, enveloping her in an embrace as a worried look covered her countenance.

"Isn't surgery dangerous?"

"Isn't _porn_?" Thirteen responded condescendingly.

"_Shit_," Kutner grunted as he slid sideways, arms still partly around Rigby's waist as he once more he burst into painful heaves, bile expelling upon the front of his shirt as moisture stung at the corners of his lashes.

"All right," Rigby said in a startlingly tranquil timbre. "_Here's_ the deal. You two get Lucas and do whatever it is you have to do. If he argues the surgery just tell him to get the hell over it and get him in that operating room as fast as you can so he can _finally_ start feeling better."

"And _you'll _be doing what then?" Taub queried.

"Our beloved pal right here needs cleaned up," she motioned towards Kutner who was now curled in the fetal position against the crusted tile floor, "not to mention a ride home."

"I'm _fine_," Kutner muttered in a warbling tone.

"You're _not_," Rigby mimicked. "But it's okay. Your friends have it taken care of, _don't they_?" she questioned, tone lifting as she glanced at them sternly. Taub and Thirteen nodded, a mutually somber gaze upon both their features as they watched their colleague stifle a series of dry heaves upon the sticky floor. "Good," Rigby said with a cheerless sort of satisfaction as she reached for a fresh handful of paper towels, yanking them from the dispenser with force. "Then it's all settled."

"_Yeah_," Taub replied softly, lips pinched with apparent sadness. "I guess it is."


	23. Trust

23.

"So that's _it_ then?" Lucas sat straighter than he had in the past weeks, shoulders held precariously as he fidgeted with the slick plastic tray covered in a selected assortment of the cafeteria's offered entrees. "I'm better now?" he questioned with a tilt of his head as he placed a spoonful of pureed applesauce upon his tongue, swallowing cautiously.

"The surgery removed most of the excess folds but without the proper _diet_ and precautions, you _could_ end up right back here within a few years if you're not careful," Cuddy warned as she rested her sleek elbows along the length of her knees from the chair in which she sat. "When you're ready to be discharged, I'll have a nurse explain what you need to be doing and if you'd like we can set you up with a nutritionist to help you through this."

Lucas' faint hues went dark. " – _basically_ what you're saying then is that it never goes away," he grunted drearily as his lungs hissed with a miserable sigh.

"It _is_ possible to live a very full and normal life with this disease," Cuddy stated vaguely, her features appearing pained as she bit against the moist inside of her cheek. "As long as you take care of yourself."

"Proper diet, _right_." Lucas repeated dourly, easing the miniature metal spoon back into the still filled container of crushed apples. Cuddy winced at his tone's obvious severity.

"I'm sorry," she apologized quietly, peering ruefully through her combed coif of black curls. A short, brusque laugh passed along the edges of the private investigator's thin lips.

"For what?" he grinned faintly, a quizzical look forming upon his features as he turned his torso slightly, his spine cracking aloud. "This isn't _your_ fault," he assured with teeth gnashing against one another in silence.

"But the whole House ordeal," Cuddy argued stiffly, rubbing the pad of her thumb against one of her rings absently. "That _was_."

"Its fine," Lucas replied abruptly, seemingly avoiding her gaze as his eyes lifted towards the ceiling.

"No, it's not. It wasn't fair to you," Cuddy ignored, continuing as her throat tightened, veins appearing along the sides of her neck. "Maybe whatever we were didn't have a title but there was something there and it was wrong of me – _wrong_ to just go and do what I did. The more that I look at the situation the more that I feel angry towards myself for going behind your back. I was upset when I saw you with Rigby," she stammered, cringing as though the mere mental image still irked her.

"Nothing happened with Rigby," Lucas interrupted quickly. "We're friends." Cuddy shook her head in frustration.

"I know, I know. And I suppose I knew that at the time. It's just – have you _seen_ the two of you together?" she inquired with an almost hurt grin. "It's like," she paused – at a loss for descriptors. "You know those kids? The ones who are always together, off in their own little worlds? They're the ones playing house in the tree fort and they're the ones that never forget each other. When you and Rigby are looking at each other it's like watching two childhood sweethearts reconnect after years apart."

"Sounds pretty sickening," Lucas noted wryly. "But I think you're lying."

"Why would I lie to you?"

"Not to me," Lucas corrected. "To _yourself_." Cuddy's face went blank. "You didn't sleep with House because you saw me getting along with my best friend. Yeah, maybe Rigs and I have a pretty unique relationship that might've taken you some getting used to but you're a smart, confident, _sexy_ woman," he continued. "I mean, look at you. You pretty much run this whole hospital and everything in it. Not to mention you keep House in line, which we all know is the most trying on you." Cuddy stifled a grin, the corners of her lips curling. "My point _is _that you slept with House because you wanted to."

"Right," Cuddy scoffed with a hint of embarrassment. "Because I just love going down _that_ road."

"You do though. Not because you're a self destructive person, mind you. I'm sure that's how most people would see it. But you do love it because it's the _right_ road for you. In all your years dating, it's been the man or the career – am I right?"

Cuddy flinched begrudgingly. "Yes," she admitted.

"Well, with House it's never been that. In fact he's the one person that when combining your two worlds, actually manages to make both of them _challenging_ and _interesting_. You wouldn't be the Dean of Medicine if you liked taking the easy route. House is the same path you've taken your entire life. And suffice it to say, I think you've proved you can handle the path you've chosen. You just have to be _confident _in it."

"I _guess_," Cuddy held her breath hesitantly.

"No," Lucas shook his head. "You don't guess. Look – do you trust yourself and the decisions you've made for your life?"

"I do."

"Then trust yourself with this. This isn't some detour your life is about to take. It's just a bend in the road you've been paving and yes, I know I sound like a horrible cliché of every self motivating book out there but please – just _trust yourself_."


End file.
